and the Lord hath taken away.'"

"But she was all that I had to love," said Clemence; "what is life to me
now?"

"Don't talk like that, dear," said Mrs. Linden, gently, "the
unrestrained indulgence of grief is always wrong. Have you never thought
how selfish it was to wish your mother back again, as I have so often
heard you? God's ways are inscrutable. But though his children cannot
always see what is best for themselves, He never errs. Your mother was a
good woman, a faithful wife, and loving parent, but a life of
uninterrupted prosperity had left her a stranger to the peace that
cometh only from obedience to the will of Him who created us. It was in
the midst of adversity that she found the source of consolation. She
learned then how precious is the love the Father feels for the suffering
ones of earth. She was willing to go. Her only fears were for you. Can
you not have faith that the prayers she breathed for your welfare with
her dying lips, will be answered? You are young yet, and there is work
for you to do in the world. Interest yourself in some worthy object, and
you will be astonished at the change in your own feelings."

Clemence looked up with a new light dawning upon her face. These
thoughts were new to her.

"I am afraid I have been selfish," she said, coming and kneeling beside
her friend, and locking her slender fingers agitatedly. "It is very hard
always to do right. Believe, though, that I erred only in judgment, not
through intention. Help me to do better."

"Dear child," said the motherly woman, touched by the generous
confession, "we are none of us perfect. We can only _try_. I have said
this solely for your own good. You realize that, I am sure. My only wish
is to make you happy."

Clemence took up with her friend's advice. She found enough to occupy
her, for there is plenty to do in the world. It needs only the willing
heart. She became the instrument of much good, and many sick and
sorrowful learned to love the low-voiced girl who came among them in her
sable robes.

The winter passed quietly and uneventfully. Clemence went very little
into society. She had no desire for it. She was content to be forgotten,
and let those who were eager for the strife, crowd and jostle each
other for the empty honors, for which she did not care to put in a
claim. Not but that she had once been ambitious of distinction, and had
been told by loving friends that she possessed talents that it was wrong
to bu