One year had elapsed, and a funeral train wound again through Mount Auburn, pausing at the grave of Willie. Lillias was no more. She ceased not to mourn for her brother, and during her last illness she spoke of little, save that she should find him in heaven. Once more that angel-mother sat by a dying child, breathing words of holy hope and trust, and her eye grew bright, and her heart was warm, as she spoke of a joyful reunion in heaven. "Mamma," said the child, "we will keep a place for you and dear papa, and will you come soon?" Years have since passed, but often at the holy twilight hour those gentle children are with me still; and when my rapt soul pierces the azure vault, I seem to see Willie in angel robes, and listen, entranced, to the tones of spirit-melody from his tiny golden harp--a form as radiant as his own is ever near him, and I fancy, as I mark the delighted look that ever greets a seraph strain from the beloved lips, that I hear in sweet tones, "_thou, my sweet Lilias, art with me still_." THE CHRISTIAN HERO'S EPITAPH. Say, doth the sculptor's ready tool engrave A _mournful_ stanza o'er a _conqueror's_ grave? Or bid the willow bend, or cypress twine? Or doleful tokens to his fame combine? Then trace no saddening sentence o'er the place Where rests the victor in a heavenward race; Meeter the laurel and the trumpet-strain For one who fought a fadeless crown to gain! Bring the memorials of a warrior true, The "sword," the "helmet," and the "breast-plate" too; Write on the marble that by _these_ he won, And bid the gazer do as he hath done! Write of his faith; how humble, yet how bright, Diffusing round a clear and heavenly light; Write of his zeal; how quenchlessly it burned, How many a wanderer to the skies it turned! And, mourner, when thou comest with a tear, Love's costless tribute to remembrance dear, Bend there thy trembling knee upon the sod, And lift thy homage to the conqueror's God! THE LADY OF FERNHEATH. BY MARY SPENCER PEASE. CHAPTER I. ISOLETH.