"His death has caused a heart-rending void," said Ida. "I start whenever the door opens at the hours he was accustomed to visit us. At Mr. Dana's, I am listening all the time for his step or voice. Oh! why do nonentities, cumberers of the earth, spin out a tiresome life, and the loved and useful perish?" "Perhaps they are taken away from the evil to come. You would not rebel if you believed this? At best, what are the short years of toil and change we pass below, compared with the never-ending life of our heavenly home?" "You forget that I have no portion in that home, Mr. Lacy." "No portion! You do not mean to refuse an inheritance so graciously offered! It may be long before we have another opportunity to speak of these things; will you make me a promise?" "If I can perform it," answered she. "It is that you will every day, ask yourself, 'What happiness does my soul desire that Christ cannot, and will not bestow?' Will you do this?" She promised. "It seems impossible," he pursued, "that a sorer trial than that which you are now undergoing, can befall you; yet there may be such in reserve, and then, I would have you recollect, that as He is the only happiness, He is also the only comfort. Willingly--gladly as I would suffer in your stead, I would not save you a pang, if I thought it was His means to bring you to Himself." He spoke with emotion, as if possessed with the conviction that the event he adverted to would assuredly take place; and that this was his sole chance of preparing her for it. He arose--she gave him her hand--it was taken as silently, and held for a long minute. "This is not our parting," said he; "if we both live, I shall see you again soon, but to provide against contingencies, I will ask you now to write to me; I mean, of course, in answer to my letters, as you would to Charley--to a brother,--will you?" "Yes, if your letters are as frank as your speech, and I am granted a like indulgence." True to his promise, he called upon the eve of her departure, but the presence of the family and other visitors prevented private conversation; and Charley's manoeuvres, skilful and unsuspected as they were, failed to effect a diversion of Josephine's watchfulness. Yet as they said "farewell" Ida felt a card slipped into her hand. Upon it was pencilled, "Remember your promise. Mizpah." CHAPTER XVIII.