ry on John Dulan. He did not speak.

"Answer! answer! answer!" almost screamed the mother.

John Dulan turned away.

"Is my son--is my son--dead?"

"He is in heaven, I trust," sobbed John.

A shriek, the most wild, shrill and unearthly that ever came from the
death-throe of a breaking heart, arose upon the air, and echoed
through the woods, and the widow sunk, fainting, to the ground. They
raised her up--the blood was flowing in torrents from her mouth. They
bore her to the house, and laid her on the bed. John Dulan watched
beside her, while the old man hastened to procure assistance.

The life of the widow was despaired of for many weeks. She recovered
from one fit of insensibility, only to relapse into another. At
length, however, she was pronounced out of danger. But the white hair,
silvered within the last few weeks, the strained eyes, contracted brow
and shuddering form, marked the presence of a scathing sorrow.

One day, while lying in this state, a traveling carriage drew up
before the door, and a young, fair girl, clad in deep mourning,
alighted and entered. Elizabeth, who was watching beside her, stooped
down and whispered very low:

"The betrothed bride of your son."

The young girl approached the bed, and, taking the hand of the
sufferer, exclaimed: "Mother, mother, you are not alone in your
sorrow! I have come to live or die by you, as my strength may serve!"

The widow opened her arms and received her in an embrace. They wept.
The first blessed tears that had relieved the burdened heart of either
were shed together.

Alice never left her. When the widow was sufficiently recovered, they
went to England. The best years of the life of Alice were spent in
soothing the declining days of William Dulan's mother. The face of
Alice was the last object her eyes rested on in life; and the hands of
Alice closed them in death.

Alice never married, but spent the remainder of her life in
ministering to the suffering poor around her.

I neglected to mention that, during the illness of Mrs. Dulan, the
body of her son was found, and interred in this spot, by the request
of his mother.

"What becomes of the moral?" you will say.

I have told you a true story. Had I created these beings from
imagination, I should also have judged them--punished the bad and
rewarded the good. But these people actually lived, moved, and had
their being in the real world, and have now gone to render in their
account to their