"There, now, Bonnibel," said she, in a tone of reproach, "that is just like you. I never expected that you, spoiled child as you are, would ever do me justice; but do you think I could be so unfeeling as to cast you, a poor orphan child, out upon the cold charity of the world?" Bonnibel's guileless little heart was deceived by this dramatic exhibition of fine feeling. She began to think she had done her uncle's wife injustice. "Forgive me, aunt," she answered, gently. "I did not know what your feelings would be upon the subject. I know my uncle intended to provide for me." "But since he signally failed to do so I will see that you do not suffer," said the widow, loftily; "of course, I am not legally compelled to do so, but I will keep you with me and care for you the same as I do for my own daughter, until you marry, which, I trust, will not be long after you lay aside your mourning. A girl as pretty as you, even without fortune, ought to make an early and advantageous settlement in life." The whiteness of the girl's fair, childish face was again suffused with deep crimson. "I shall never marry," she answered, sadly, thinking of the lover-husband who had left her months ago, and from whose silence she felt that he must be dead; "never, never!" "Pshaw!" said Mrs. Arnold, impatiently; "all the girls talk that way, but they marry all the same. I should be sorry to have to take care of you all your life. I expect you and Felise to marry when a suitable _parti_ presents himself. My daughter already has an admirer in New York whom she would do well to accept. He is very old, but then he is a millionaire." She arose, stately, handsome and dignified. "Felise and I return to New York Saturday," she said. "Will you be strong enough to accompany us?" "I am afraid not," said Bonnibel, faintly. "Very well. Your maid and the housekeeper will take care of you in our absence. I will send you a traveling suit of mourning, and when you feel strong enough you can come to us." "Yes, madam," Bonnibel answered, and the wealthy widow left the room. So in a few weeks after, while nature was putting off her gay livery and donning winter hues, Bonnibel laid aside the bright garments she had been wont to wear, as she had already laid aside the joy and gladness of her brief spring of youth, and donning the black robes of bereavement and bitterness, "Took up the cross of her life again, Saying only it might have been." The day before she left Sea View she went down to the shore to have a parting row in her pretty little namesake, the _Bonnibel_. She had delayed her return to the city as long as possible, but now she was growing stronger she felt that she had no further excuse to dally in the home she loved so well, and which was so inseparably connected with the two beloved ones so sadly lost--the uncle who had gone away from her through the gates of death, and the young husband who seemed separated from her just as fatally by time and distance.