His hair had the white touch of
age, and his heart knew the chastening hand of God. "Exceeding peace" was
written on his meek face. He lifted up his soul on the arms of prayer. He
spoke of the dead, whose life had been as pure as a new snow. He spoke
cheerfully and tenderly, and sometimes smiled, for his

"Faith was large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end."

He had drank at the fountain of God's word; his soul had been refreshed,
and his were not the lips to preach the doctrine of an endless wail. He
knew that there are many mansions in our Father's house; and he said that
Bell was happier there than here. He glanced back upon her infant days, and
ran along the various threads of her life, to the moment death disentangled
them from the world. "This little one in her shroud," he said, "is an
eloquent sermon. She passed through the dark valley without fear; and sits,
like Mary, at the feet of our Saviour." Of this life, he said: "It is but
an imperfect prelude to the next." Of death: "It is only a brief sleep:
some sunny morning we shall wake up with the child Bell, and find ourselves
in Heaven!"

The coffin was closed, and the train passed through the gravelled walk.

Then came that dull, heavy sound of earth falling on the coffin-lid, which
makes one's heart throb. Did you ever hear it?

* * * * *

When Bell had been a year in Heaven, a plain head-stone was placed over
Nanny. She lingered only a little while after her darling. She folded her
arms and fell asleep one summer twilight, and never again opened her kind
old eyes on this world. Age had weakened her frame, and the parting of soul
and body was only the severing of a fragile cord.

Mortimer did not remain long in the old house; its light and pleasantness
had passed away. The little stock of money which his father had left
previous to his last voyage, was exhausted; he could earn nothing in the
village. His early dream of the great city came over him again. He yearned
for its ceaseless excitement, its grandeur--he never thought of its misery,
its sin and pollution. Through the length of one July night he lay awake in
bed, while his eyes were like kaleidoscopes, taking a thousand arabesque
forms and fancies. Toward morning he fell asleep, having built some
fall-down castles in the air. The next day he took a last, lingering look
at the old rooms; a last ramble on the sea-shore; he sat an hour under t