g girl
found all the tenderest offices of love and friendship anticipated.
Except heaven she had scarcely anything to wish for. But who can even
imagine the hopeless agony of her father's soul? She had been the single
remaining plank which bore him through a troubled ocean to a calm and
delightful harbor; but now she is going down, leaving him to struggle,
weak and exhausted for a little, and then the same dark waves will cover
them both.

At length the dreadful hour arrived--the last slight spasm of death was
over, and her spotless soul passed into heaven from the bereaved arms
of her hopeless and distracted father, who was reduced by the depth and
wildness of despair to a state of agony which might wring compassion
from a demon.

On the morning of her interment, Alice, completely prostrated by excess
of grief and watching, was assisted to bed, being unable to accomplish
even the short distance to her father's house, and for nearly a
fortnight serious doubts were entertained of her recovery. Her
constitution, however, though not naturally strong, enabled her to
rally, and in three weeks' time she was barely able to go home to her
family. On the day following Mr. Hamilton called to see her--a task to
which, under the dreadful weight of his sorrow, he was scarcely equal.
He said he considered it, however, his duty, and he accordingly went.
His visit, too, was very short, nor had he much to say, and it was
well he had not; for he could by no exertion have summoned sufficient
fortitude for a lengthened conversation on a subject arising from the
loss of a child so deeply beloved.

"Alice," said he, "I know the arrangement entered into between
you--and--and--"

Here he was overcome, and could not for a few minutes maintain
sufficient calmness to proceed, and poor Alice was almost as deeply
affected as himself. At last he strove to go on.

"You know," he resumed, "the agreement I allude to. You were to be
sisters, and you were sisters. Well, my dear Alice, for her sake, as
well as for your own, and as she looked upon you in that affectionate
light, the contract between you, as far as it now can be done, shall be
maintained. Henceforth you are my daughter. I adopt you. All that
she was to have shall be yours, reverting, however, should you
die without-issue, to my nephew, Henry Woodward; and should he die
childless, to his brother, Charles Lindsay; and should he die without
offspring, then to my niece Maria. I have arra