rds
her mother. It was in honour, not in love, that Henrietta was wanting,
and with how many daughters is it not the same? It was therefore,
that though even to himself it seemed harsh, and cost him a pang, Mr.
Geoffrey Langford resolved that his niece's first visit to her father's
grave should not be spent in fruitless dreams of him or of his presence,
alluring because involving neither self-reproach nor resolution; but in
thoughts which might lead to action, to humility, and to the yielding up
of self-will.

Henrietta looked very thoughtful. "That time is so far away!" said she.

"How do you know that?" said her uncle in the deep low tone that brought
the full perception that "it is nigh, even at the doors."

She gave a sort of shuddering sigh, the reality being doubly brought
home to her, by the remembrance of the suddenness of her father's
summons.

"It is awful," she said. "I cannot bear to think of it."

"Henrietta," said her uncle solemnly, "guard yourself from being so
satisfied with a dream of the present as to lose sight of the real,
most real future." He paused, and as she did not speak, went on: "The
present, which is the means of attaining to that future, is one not of
visions and thoughts, but of deeds."

Again Henrietta sighed, but presently she said, "But, uncle, that would
bring us back to the world of sense. Are we not to pray that we may in
heart and mind ascend?"

"Yes, but to dwell with Whom? Not to stop short with objects once of
earthly affection."

"Then would you not have me think of him at all?" said she, almost
reproachfully.

"I would have you take care, Henrietta, lest the thought should absorb
the love and trust due to your true and Heavenly Father, and at the same
time you forget what on earth is owed to your mother. Do you think that
is what your father would desire?"

"You mean," she said sadly, "that while I do not think enough of God,
and while I love my own way so well, I have no right to dwell on the
thought I love best, the thought that he is near."

"Take it rather as a caution than as blame," said Uncle Geoffrey. A long
silence ensued, during which Henrietta thought deeply on the new idea
opened to her. Her vision, for it could not be called her memory of
her father, had in fact been too highly enshrined in her mind, too much
worshipped, she had deemed this devotion a virtue, and fostered as it
was by the solitude of her life, and the temper of her mother's mind,
th