heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she
never _dared_ ask him to give to her a daughter--to take unto
himself a wife.

In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward,
on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated.

A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of
Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company,
for it was on _her_ son that the high honour was to be laid.

How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who,
in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill
that great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was a
man "acquainted with grief,"--you had known it by the resigned,
submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions
of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his
tranquil eyes. Duncan _had_ toiled--he _had_ born a burden!

A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion
undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for
themselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one being
felt it who had not looked upon that man for years--not since the
lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan
Melville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart,
crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other
voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one
woman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving,
still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figure
bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the
ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and
grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest
flower--the glorious beauty!

And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise
ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour he
remembered how _one_ would have looked on him that day, could she
have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people
loved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the
altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon
the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to
appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed
with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they
should look upon her.

Bishop Melville had retired at n