The next morning, as the anxious parents were bending over their darling, she opened her eyes, and a beautiful smile spread itself over her features. “Oh! I have seen him to-night,” she said, “and he was among the blessed; he told me to live for your sake and his mother’s, and he would watch over me until we met in heaven.” When thoroughly awakened from her dream, she looked fondly on her father and mother, and clasping the hands of both, said, “Oh! how wicked and ungrateful I was to you last night! Can you forgive me? and henceforth I will only live to please you, and will have no wish but yours.” “You, dear child, you never did any thing but please us; you never had any other wish but ours,” both answered with streaming eyes. Judith then arose and dressed herself; her trembling limbs and pale countenance sufficiently betraying the shock her frame had received. She went out of the room and busied herself even more than was her wont in domestic details, and throughout the day endeavored by redoubled attention and affection to her grandfather, to make amends to him for her impatience the night before. The fine weather of the preceding day had been succeeded in the night by a driving snow-storm, which had increased to such violence by morning, as to prevent any communication with the Fayerweather family during the day. Toward evening the wind shifted to the south, bringing a rain which lasted till the next day, melting the great quantity of snow which had fallen, and rendering the streets impassable. Judith’s sense of duty, aided by active and unremitting occupation, had so far enabled her to struggle against any further indulgence of her grief. Her parents were surprised at the composure she maintained, while she sat down this afternoon, as was frequently her wont, on a low stool by her grandfather’s side. She had a large basket by her, filled with new cloth of different kinds, which her mother and she had cut out, and had already begun to make into various articles, in preparation for her own housekeeping. She selected a damask table-cloth from the basket, and turning the hem, began to sew. After taking a few stitches, her wonted smile flitted over her countenance and raised her drooping eyelids; her dimples began to play, and her voice broke forth, like the first robin of the spring, in a lively little Scotch song. The sound of her own voice in singing restored her to her recollection—she threw down her work and exclaimed with a scream, “What am I doing?” then laid her head sobbing on her grandfather’s knee. “Oh, grandfather! I cannot help it,” she cried. “Don’t try to help it, dear,” said her mother, her own eyes streaming; “you have put force enough upon yourself.” The old man placed his withered hands fondly upon her head, and said— “Yes, weep, my child, for you may; but not without hope; He that wept at the tomb of Lazarus sees you, and in his own good time will turn your weeping into joy.”