ions and changes of this
ever-varying life! No such strength and peace are to be found in the
frail and casual ties for which man in his folly would exchange this
bond of Heaven.

Few words were spoken during the burned breakfast at the parsonage, or
the drive to Major Scott's, for deep emotion is ever silent. Yet not for
them were the coy reserves often evinced by hearts on the verge of a
life-union--the faltering timidity which hesitates to lift the veil from
feelings in whose light existence is thenceforth to pass. They could not
forget that they were to part, and even Mary hesitated not to let her
lover read in her eyes' shadowy depths the tenderness which might soothe
the parting pang, and whose memory might brighten the hours of
separation.

Why should we linger on a scene which each heart can depict for itself?
With solemn tenderness the father pronounced the words which transferred
to another the right to his own earthly sanctuary--the heart of his
daughter--and committed to another's keeping--his last and brightest
earthly treasure. That treasure was soon, however, returned, for a time,
to his care. The vows of the marriage rite had scarcely been uttered,
when with one long clasp--one whispered word--one lingering look--the
disciplined soldier turned from his newly-found joy to his duties. Never
had Mary seemed more lovely in his eyes or her father's than in that
moment, when with quivering lips, eyes "heavy with unshed tears," and
cheeks white with anguish, she yet smiled upon him to the last. Nor did
her heroic self-control cease when he was gone. Her father was still
there, and for him she endured and was silent. Only by her languid
movements and fading color did he learn the bitterness of her soul
through the weary months of her sorrow. Weary months were they indeed!

One letter she received from Captain Percy, written before he had
passed beyond the limits of the United States. It breathed the very soul
of tenderness. "My wife!" he wrote, "what joy is summed in that little
word--what faith in the present--what promise for the future! I find
myself often repeating it again and again with a lingering cadence,
while your gentle eyes seem smiling at my folly." Long, long did Mary
wear this letter next her heart, and still no other came to take its
place.

They had parted in 1813, just as the falling leaves came to herald the
approach of winter. That winter passed with Mary in vain longing and
vainer hopes