It is very hard to think it; how much harder to know it! But there is no mistaking her look now--so placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp of your hand--so warm--so full of meaning! ----"Madge, Madge, must it be?" And a pleasant smile lights her eye; and her grasp is warmer; and her look is--upward! ----"Must it--must it be, dear Madge?"--A holier smile,--loftier,--lit up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp, and you cling to it faster--harder,--joined close to the frail wreck of your love,--joined tightly--but oh, how far apart! She is in Heaven;--and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old man! But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of grief." When the household is quiet and darkened,--when Madge is away from you, and your boy Frank slumbering--as youth slumbers upon sorrow,--when you are alone with God and the night,--in that room so long hallowed by her presence, but now--deserted--silent,--then you may yield yourself to such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over _her_ fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit lean toward the Rest where her love has led you! Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you, comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often repeated. Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector save the wayward Frank. * * * * * It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial mark of your regard. "Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me." "Very kind, father." "I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie." "I would not, father." "But Madge, my daughter!" "He is not looking for such return, father." "But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"