e him to reflection and prayer. I leave
him to God and his own soul. Come, Edith, leave him and follow me."

There was something so commanding in her accent and manner I dared not
resist her, though I longed to remain and whisper words of peace and
love to my unhappy husband. I knew that his soul must be crushed into
the dust, and my heart bled for his sufferings. Edith, too, withdrew her
clinging arms, for she dared not disobey her mother, and slowly and
sadly followed us up the winding stairs.

"Go to bed, my child," said she to Edith, when we reached the upper
platform. "May God in his mercy spare you from witnessing another scene
like this."

"Oh, mother! I never shall feel happy again. My poor brother! you did
not see him, mother, when you left him. You did not look upon him, or
you could not have left him. There was death on his face. Forgive him,
dear mother! take him back to your heart."

"And do you think he is not here?" she exclaimed, pressing her hands on
her heart, as if trying to sustain herself under an intense pain. "Do
you think he suffers alone? Do you think I have left him, but for his
good? Do you think I would not now gladly fold him in my arms and bathe
his soul in the overflowing tenderness of maternal love? O child, child!
Earth has no sounding line to fathom the depths of a mother's heart.
Good-night. God bless you, my darling Edith."

"And Gabriella?"

"Will remain with me."

Mrs. Linwood, whose left arm still encircled me, brought me into her
chamber, and closed the door. She was excessively pale, and I
mechanically gave her a glass of water. She thanked me; and seating
herself at a little table, on which an astral lamp was burning, she
began to turn the leaves of a Bible, which always lay there. I observed
that her hands trembled and that her lips quivered.

"There is but one fountain which can refresh the fainting spirit," she
said, laying her hand on the sacred volume. "It is the fountain of
living waters, which, whosoever will, may drink, and receive immortal
strength."

She turned the leaves, but there was mist over her vision,--she could
not distinguish the well-known characters.

"Read for me, my beloved Gabriella," said she, rising and motioning me
to the seat she had quitted. "I was looking for the sixty-second Psalm."

She seated herself in the shadow of the curtain, while I nerved myself
for the appointed task. My voice was at first low and tremulous, but as
the sound