y of
which she had partaken as she knelt beside his death-bed. These were
the last. He had been too happy for poetry, except one or two scraps
in Switzerland, and these had been hers from the time she had detected
them.

No wonder Amabel almost lived on those papers! It would not be too much
to say she was very happy in her own way when alone with them; the desk
on a chair by her sofa. They were too sacred for any one else; she did
not for many weeks show one even to her mother; but to her they were
like a renewal of his presence, soothing the craving after him that had
been growing on her ever since the first few days when his sustaining
power had not passed away. As she sorted them, and made out their dates,
finding fresh stores of meaning at each fresh perusal she learnt through
them, as well as through her own trial, so patiently borne, to enter
into his character even more fully than when he was in her sight.
Mrs. Edmonstone, who had at first been inclined to dread her constant
dwelling on them, soon perceived that they were her great aids through
this sad winter.

She had much pleasure in receiving the portrait, which was sent her by
Mr. Shene. It was a day or two before she could resolve to look at it,
or feel that she could do so calmly. It was an unfinished sketch, taken
more with a view to the future picture than to the likeness; but Guy's
was a face to be better represented by being somewhat idealized, than
by copying merely the material form of the features. An ordinary artist
might have made him like a Morville, but Mr. Shene had shown all
that art could convey of his individual self, with almost one of his
unearthly looks. The beautiful eyes, with somewhat of their peculiar
lightsomeness, the flexible look of the lip, the upward pose of the
head, the set of that lock of hair that used to wave in the wind, the
animated position, 'just ready for a start,' as Charles used to call it,
were recalled as far as was in the power of chalk and crayon, but so as
to remind Amabel of him more as one belonging to heaven than to earth.
The picture used to be on her mantel-shelf all night, the shipwreck
cross before it, and Sintram and Redclyffe on each side; and she
brought it into the dressing-room with her in the morning, setting it up
opposite to the sofa, before settling herself.

Her days were much alike. She felt far from well, or capable of
exertion, and was glad it was thought right to keep her entirely
upsta