We have wandered far away from the little band of worshipers, but our readers will at once recognize in the pale sad girl, who listened with such trembling eagerness to the solemn words of the liturgy, Mabel Dacre, (as she once more called herself,) and can readily understand the emotion with which she heard for the first time in so many years, the same pure ritual, which in childhood she had learned to love. Often had a deep manly voice, whose lightest tones were music to her ears, repeated those well known words, and Mabel’s heart was too full for utterance, she could only weep. And now for a time let us return to Riverdale, and see the changes that have taken place there. For months after Mabel’s departure, the little cottage was filled with gloom, yet still her sweet loving letters, like gleams of sunshine, often illumined its darkness, and Walter, who now shared the loneliness of Mr. Dacre’s abode, would often sit for hours with one of those precious missives clasped in his hand, and his eyes wandering from one to another of the dear objects which her touch had rendered sacred. There were her flowers, still blooming as freshly as ever, while she whose slender fingers had so often trained their graceful foliage, was gone forever. Alas! how sad, how inexpressibly harassing to his loving heart, was this living death of her whom he so idolized; separated as fully as though the dark portals of the grave had arisen between them, yet with the agonizing thought ever in his mind that far away, in a gay and brilliant throng, her beauty gladdened other eyes, her silvery voice made music to other ears, while her poor lonely heart was yearning to flee away and be at rest. For a time not a doubt of her constant, faithful devotion to him ever crossed his mind; and even when a long interval passed and no letters came in answer to his repeated and affectionate ones, not a line to cheer his poor desolate heart, he still tried not to give way to despondency or doubt; “do not let us distrust each other, Walter,” these sweet words would come like an angel message, when his hope, and his faith in woman’s love were well nigh gone. And then a new trial came in the increasing feebleness of his beloved rector. The old man’s worn-out frame could not long have endured even with the gentle cares and sweet cherishing of his adopted daughter. Anxiety for her fate, and the long cessation of all intercourse between them, brought on a melancholy that seemed to deprive him of all energy or strength; and day by day Walter saw the bowed and aged form grow weaker, and the gentle voice more tremulous. One evening in autumn, as Walter sat by his bedside, reading from that priceless volume, which was now the rector’s only comfort, the post-boy entered with a letter from London.