Delayed by illness and other unforeseen causes, it was not till the autumn of that fatal year, that Mr. La Motte, with his wife and daughter, arrived in Montreal, only to meet new trial and disappointment, for the first answers to inquiries respecting his relative, informed him of his death, and the disposition of his entire property to the church. Thus left friendless, almost penniless, in a strange land, with a wife and child, bred in affluence, dependent upon him, the unfortunate La Motte was ready to sink beneath the heavy burden of his lot. But something must be done, so a small house was rented, and through the friendly services of a distant relative of his late uncle, Mr. La Motte obtained the situation of under-clerk, with a very moderate remuneration, in a mercantile house in the city. It was a new position for one who had been for many prosperous years at the head of an extensive establishment of his own; but it averted immediate want, and enabled him to provide a shelter for those dear ones who leaned upon him—a humble one it is true, compared to the comfort and luxurious beauty of their southern home; but it was their own—and beautified by the wife’s patient sweetness, the daughter’s loving smiles and tender assiduities for the happiness of her parents, it became a haven of peace to the worn and weary man. So passed away the first year of their northern sojourn; but with the falling of the next autumn leaves, a gathering cloud threatened to overshadow their calm sky. The change of climate and of circumstances had seriously affected Mrs. La Motte’s health—her step became feeble—a cough convulsed her slight frame, and the beautiful but fearful hectic of consumption lent its fatal lustre to her cheek and eye. She faded fast, and with the early snows of winter the broken-hearted husband and weeping daughter, saw her dear and cherished form borne forever from the humble home, which her presence had sanctified and blessed. “Do not mourn thus bitterly, my Rosalie,” she said, on the day of her departure. “I am not leaving you, my child, but only passing from your outward sight, to be still nearer to you in thought and affection. This life, dearest, we have found one of trial and change—but we both believe that the one toward which I am rapidly advancing, upon which I shall soon enter, is one of beauty and of peace—of joy unspeakable and of endless development.” “Yes, dear mamma, I know this,” said the weeping girl; “and for you I do rejoice—but oh, this seeming separation—how sad it is!” and a fresh burst of sorrow impeded her utterance. “Ever think of it _but_ as a _seeming_ separation, for it is one only to the eye of sense,” said Mrs. La Motte. “That which we call death, dear Rosalie, is but a change in the mode of our existence—a continuation of life, higher, fuller, more free than that which we know here, in a world of light and beauty far more real than this.”