Looking for a moment with unutterable tenderness upon Carlton, she closed her eyes and said, in a low but thrilling tone, “_Thy will be done._” Her parents were called in. After uttering, from the depths of his experience, a few words of consolation, the pastor kneeled down and offered a prayer, first for the dying girl, then for him who watched over her, and then for her parents and friends. During the prayer Carlton held her hand in his, and felt its feeble pressure as the petitions had reference to him. She sunk into a brief slumber almost as soon as the prayer was ended. Perfect silence was preserved, that she might not be disturbed. Carlton still retained her hand. The mother was about to make a whispered inquiry of the pastor, when the sleeper awoke. “Did you hear that music?” said she. “No, dearest.” “It was the sweetest I ever heard. It must have come from the golden harps. Hark! hear it again.” She closed her eyes. Carlton felt her hand relax its feeble grasp. He looked toward the pastor who came to the bedside. “She is with her God,” said the old man, bending down and imprinting a kiss upon the cheek which felt not the warm tear that fell upon it, “and you my friends”—turning to the parents—“can say, ‘the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’” CHAPTER III. Carlton remained by the bedside of the departed one till the attendants came to prepare the body for the grave. He then repaired with apparent calmness to his chamber, and remained there till summoned to attend the funeral. He took his seat in the church with the afflicted parents, and with them followed the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from his eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his countenance wear the expression of deep sorrow. Some thought he was wonderfully supported, and others doubted the strength of his affection for the departed one. When the last sod had been laid upon the grave, he returned home, and seated himself by his father’s side. “You will hardly be disposed to return to college this term, my son,” said the sympathizing father. “Consult your own inclinations in relation to the matter.” “I shall return to-morrow,” was the unexpected reply. The father made no objection. He looked upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow. Early the next morning Willard arose, and having visited the grave-yard, and laid his head upon the sere turf of the new made grave, he set out on his return to college. The evening found him at his room, surrounded by his friends, who came to express their sympathy for his bereavement, or their joy at his return. At an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. His well-known habit of retiring early, and the painful scene through which he had passed, formed, in the judgment of his friends, an ample apology for any want of courtesy implied in the intimation.