n brotherhood, though woe and
disgrace tarnished the once golden link. Rosalie and Theresa both erred,
in not giving their children their father's name, though they believed
it accursed by perjury and guilt.

Truth, and truth alone, is safe and omnipotent: "The eternal days of God
are hers." Man may weave, but she will undeceive; man may arrange, but
God will dispose.

CHAPTER LVII.

I told my father the history of my youth and womanhood, of my marriage
and widowhood, with feelings similar to those with which I poured out my
soul into the compassionate bosom of my Heavenly Father. He listened,
pitied, wept over, and then consoled me.

"He must prove himself worthy of so sacred a trust," said he, clasping
me to his bosom with all a father's tenderness, and all a mother's love,
"before I ever commit it to his keeping. Never again, with my consent,
shall you be given back to his arms, till 'the seed of the woman has
bruised the serpent's head.'"

"I will never leave you again, dear father, under any circumstances,
whatever they may be. Rest assured, that come weal, come woe, we will
never be separated. Not even for a husband's unclouded confidence, would
I forsake a father's sacred, new-found love."

"We must wait, and hope, and trust, my beloved daughter. Every thing
will work together for the good of those that love God. I believe that
now, fully, reverentially. Sooner or later all the ways of Providence
will be justified to man, and made clear as the noonday sun."

He looked up to heaven, and his fine countenance beamed with holy
resignation and Christian faith. Oh! how I loved this dear, excellent,
noble father! Every hour, nay, every moment I might say, my filial love
and reverence increased. My feelings were so new, so overpowering, I
could not analyze them. They were sweet as the strains of Edith's harp,
yet grand as the roaring of ocean's swelling waves. The bliss of
confidence, the rapture of repose, the sublimity of veneration, the
tenderness of love, all blended like the dyes of the rainbow, and
spanned with an arch of peace the retreating clouds of my soul.

"When shall we go to Grandison Place?" he asked. "I long to pour a
father's gratitude into the ear of your benefactress. I long to visit
the grave of my Rosalie."

"To-morrow, to-day,--now, dear father, whenever you speak the word;
provided we are not separated, I do not mind how soon."

He smiled at my eagerness.

"Not quite so much h