t my
having been in the neighbourhood of Castle Connor without visiting its
desolate mistress would render me justly liable to the severest censure,
could overcome my reluctance to encountering the heavy task which was
before me. I recognised the old servant who opened the door, but he did
not know me. I was completely changed; suffering of body and mind had
altered me in feature and in bearing, as much as in character. I asked
the man whether his mistress ever saw visitors. He answered:

'But seldom; perhaps, however, if she knew that an old friend wished to
see her for a few minutes, she would gratify him so far.'

At the same time I placed my card in his hand, and requested him to
deliver it to his mistress. He returned in a few moments, saying that
his lady would be happy to see me in the parlour, and I accordingly
followed him to the door, which he opened. I entered the room, and was
in a moment at the side of my early friend and benefactress. I was too
much agitated to speak; I could only hold the hands which she gave me,
while, spite of every effort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.

'It was kind, very, very kind of you to come to see me,' she said,
with far more composure than I could have commanded; 'I see it is very
painful to you.'

I endeavoured to compose myself, and for a little time we remained
silent; she was the first to speak:

'You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell, when you observe the calmness with
which I can speak of him who was dearest to me, who is gone; but my
thoughts are always with him, and the recollections of his love'--her
voice faltered a little--'and the hope of meeting him hereafter enables
me to bear existence.'

I said I know not what; something about resignation, I believe.

'I hope I am resigned; God made me more: so,' she said. 'Oh, Mr.
Purcell, I have often thought I loved my lost child TOO well. It was
natural--he was my only child--he was----' She could not proceed for a
few moments: 'It was very natural that I should love him as I did; but
it may have been sinful; I have often thought so. I doated upon him--I
idolised him--I thought too little of other holier affections; and God
may have taken him from me, only to teach me, by this severe lesson,
that I owed to heaven a larger share of my heart than to anything
earthly. I cannot think of him now without more solemn feelings than if
he were with me. There is something holy in our thoughts of the dead; I
feel it so.' Aft