, and died, I
hope, without pain. I have the consolation of knowing that I did all that
could be done to promote her comfort. Russell, I would not live here for
any consideration; nothing but a sense of duty has detained me this long. I
promised him that I would not forsake his mother. But you can have no
adequate conception of the feeling of desolation which comes over me when I
sit here during the long evenings. He seems watching me from picture-frames
and pedestals; his face, his pleading, patient, wan face, haunts me
perpetually. And yet I tried to make him happy; God knows I did my duty."

She sprang up and paced the room for some moments, with her hands behind
her, and tears glittering on her cheeks. Pausing at last on the rug, she
pointed to a large square object, closely shrouded and added--

"Yonder stands his last picture, unfinished. The day he died he put a few
feeble strokes upon it, and bequeathed the completion of the task to me.
For several years he worked occasionally on it, but much remains to be
done. It is the 'Death of Socrates.' I have not even looked at it since
that night; I do not intend to touch it until after I visit Italy; I doubt
whether my hand will ever be steady enough to give the last strokes. Oh,
Russell! the olden time, the cottage days, seem far, far off to me now!"

Leaning against the mantelpiece, she dropped her head on her hand, but when
he approached and stood at the opposite corner, he saw that the tears had
dried.

"Neither of us has had a sunny life, Electra; both have had numerous
obstacles to contend with; both have very bitter memories. Originally there
was a certain parallelism in our characters, but with our growth grew the
divergence. You have preserved the nobler part of your nature better than
I; for my years I am far older than you; none of the brightness of my
boyhood seems to linger about me. Contact with the world is an indurating
process; I really did not know how hard I had grown, until I felt my heart
soften at sight of you. I need you to keep the kindly charities and gentle
amenities of life before me, and, therefore, I have come for you. But for
my poverty I never would have given you up so long; I felt that it would
be for your advantage, in more than one respect to remain with Mr. Clifton
until I had acquired my profession. I knew that you would enjoy privileges
here which I could not give you in my straitened circumstances. Things have
changed; Mr. Campbe