r, which has so
often sounded the knell of hope to the anxious heart. With the coming on
of summer this cough passed away, but Mary was oppressed by great
feebleness and languor--scarcely less fatal symptoms. Still she omitted
none of those cares essential to her father's comfort--while to the
poor, the sick, the sorrowing, she was more than ever an angel of mercy.
With feeble steps and slow she still walked her accustomed round of
charity, and thus living for duty she lived for God, and had His peace
shed abroad in her heart, even while sorrow was wearing away the springs
of her life. She loved to sit alone and send her thoughts forward to the
future--not of this life, but of that higher life in which there shall
be no shadow on the brightness of our joy--where love shall be without
fear--no war shall desolate--no opposing duty shall separate--no death
shall place its stony barrier between loving hearts. With a mind thus
occupied, she wandered one day, in the latter part of August, through
the garden of the parsonage and the yard immediately surrounding the
church into the little inclosure beyond, within which was the green and
flowery knoll that marked her mother's last resting-place. As she turned
again towards her home the sound of a carriage driven rapidly by caused
her to look towards the road which lay about a hundred yards distant.
The carriage rushed by, and she caught but a glimpse of a gentleman
leaning from its window. In another moment a grove of trees had hidden
both the carriage and its occupant from her sight--yet that glimpse had
sent a thrill through her whole frame--a mist passed over her eyes, and
with eager, trembling steps, she proceeded on her way. As she reached
the garden, she thought she saw her father approaching it from the
house, but her path led through a summer-house, and when she had passed
through it he was no longer visible. Every thing in the house wore its
usual air of quietness on her entrance, and with a feeling of
disappointment, for which she could not rationally account, she turned
her steps towards her father's study. As she drew near the door she
heard his voice--the words, "I dread to tell her," met her ear and made
her heart stand still. One step more and she was at the door--she looked
eagerly forward, and with a glad cry sprang into the extended arms of
her husband.

It was long before any of the party were sufficiently composed for
conversation. When that time came, Captai