"And from a foreign shore Well to that heart might _hers_ these absent greetings pour." Three weeks had elapsed since George's death. It would be difficult to depict satisfactorily, the state of Sir Henry Delmé's mind during that period. The pride of life appeared crushed within him. He rarely took exercise, and when he did, his step was slow, and his gait tottering. That one terrible loss was ever present to his mind; and yet his imagination, as if disconnected with his feelings, or his memory, was constantly running riot over varying scenes of death, and conjuring up revolting pictures of putrescence and decay. A black pall, and an odour of corruption, seemed to commingle with each quick-springing fantasy; and Delmé would start with affright from his own morbid conceptions, as he found himself involuntarily dwelling on the waxen rigidity of death,--following the white worm in its unseemly wanderings,--and finally stripping the frail and disgusting coat from the disjointed skeleton. Sir Henry Delmé had in truth gone through arduous and trying scenes. The very circumstance that he had to conceal his own feelings, and support George through his deeper trials, made the present reaction the more to be dreaded. Certain are we, that trials such as his, are frequently the prevailing causes, of moral and intellectual insanity. Fortunately, Sir Henry was endued with a firm mind, and with nerves of great power of endurance. One morning, at an early hour, Thompson brought in a letter. It was from Emily Delmé; and as Sir Henry noted the familiar address, and the broad black edge, which told that the news of his brother's death had reached his sister, he cast it from him with a feeling akin to pain. The next moment, however, he sprang from the bed, threw open the shutters, and commenced reading its contents. EMILY'S LETTER. My own dear brother, My heart bleeds for you! But yesterday, we received the sad, sad letter. To-day, although blinded with tears, I implore you to remember, that you have not lost your all! Our bereavement has been great! our loss heavy indeed. But if a link in the family love-chain be broken--shall not the remaining ones cling to each other the closer? My aunt is heart-broken. Clarendon, kind as he is, did not know our George! Alas! that he should be ours no more! My only brother! dwell not with strangers! A sister's arms are ready to clasp you:--a sister's sympathy must lighten the load of your sufferings. Think of your conduct! your devotedness! Should not these comfort you? Did you not love and cherish him? did you not--happier than I--soothe his last days? were you not present to the end? From this moment, I shall count each hour that divides us. On my knees both night and morning, will I pray the Almighty God, who has chastened us, to protect my brother in his travels by sea and land.