ike my own."

The most terrible part of this sentence was to Dr. May, that Flora spoke
as if she knew it all as a certainty, and without apparent emotion, with
all the calmness of despair. What she had never guessed before had
come clearly and fully upon her now, and without apparent novelty,
or, perhaps, there had been misgivings in the midst of her complacent
self-satisfaction. She did not even seem to perceive how dreadfully
she was shocking her father, whose sole comfort was in believing her
language the effect of exaggerated self-reproach. His profession had
rendered him not new to the sight of despondency, and, dismayed as he
was, he was able at once to speak to the point.

"If it were indeed so, her removal would be the greatest blessing."

"Yes," said her mother, and her assent was in the same tone of resigned
despair, owning it best for her child to be spared a worldly education,
and loving her truly enough to acquiesce.

"I meant the greatest blessing to you," continued Dr. May, "if it be
sent to open your eyes, and raise your thoughts upwards. Oh, Flora, are
not afflictions tokens of infinite love?"

She could not accept the encouragement, and only formed, with her lips,
the words, "Mercy to her--wrath to me!"

The simplicity and hearty piety which, with all Dr. May's faults, had
always been part of his character, and had borne him, in faith and
trust, through all his trials, had never belonged to her. Where he had
been sincere, erring only from impulsiveness, she had been double-minded
and calculating; and, now that her delusion had been broken down, she
had nothing to rest upon. Her whole religious life had been mechanical,
deceiving herself more than even others, and all seemed now swept away,
except the sense of hypocrisy, and of having cut herself off, for ever,
from her innocent child. Her father saw that it was vain to argue with
her, and only said, "You will think otherwise by and by, my dear. Now
shall I say a prayer before we go down?"

As she made no reply, he repeated the Lord's Prayer, but she did not
join; and then he added a broken, hesitating intercession for the
mourners, which caused her to bury her face deeper in her hands, but her
dull wretchedness altered not.

Rising, he said authoritatively, "Come, Flora, you must go to bed. See,
it is morning."

"You have sat up all night with me!" said Flora, with somewhat of her
anxious, considerate self.

"So has George. He had just drop