“Do not say so. You cannot say so and be blameless. If I now speak with calmness respecting our situation, you will not ascribe it to indifference to life, and the objects it set before me. You are not less dear to me than I am to you. Nothing has kept my heart from breaking in view of the blighting of all my earthly prospects, but a firm conviction that all events are ordered by Infinite Wisdom—that I am in the hands of a Being whose tenderness far surpasses that of my earthly parents, and whose power will cause all things to work together for my everlasting good. This conviction, and the hope that you will be induced to seek a better portion, enable me to go calmly forward by easy, but somewhat rapid stages, toward the grave. I have ever been very anxious on your account. Even in my happiest moments I have often trembled lest I should be the means of your continuing to rest contented with this world.” The entrance of the physician prevented further conversation. He found her pulse accelerated, and advised that she should seek repose. CHAPTER II. Young Carlton had not enjoyed the advantages of early instruction in religious truth. His pious mother died while he was in his infancy. His father took the utmost pains with the intellectual, social, and emotive education of his son. The subject of personal religion was never mentioned by him. He was not a disbeliever in Christianity; but he gave little heed to its peculiar claims. He was much in public life, and a reputation for high and honorable principle was all the religion to which he aspired. It is not strange therefore that Willard was ignorant of those consoling truths which formed the support of Eliza in her dark hour of trial. In his view, she was a perfect being. He questioned the justice of the decree which was about to consign her to an early grave. He questioned the right of the Great Disposer to take from him his portion and destroy his hope. His life had been marked by strict integrity. He had no sympathy with the sensual. His aims had been purer and higher than those of the great majority of men. Why should the scathing bolt fall upon him, while the mercenary and abandoned passed on and realized their ends? Thoughts like these passed through the mind of Carlton, and as he walked to and fro in his chamber after the interview above described, they had no tendency to calm his agitation. The tempest in his bosom at length overpowered him. His father found him in a sleep bordering upon insensibility. A day of illness intervened. On the next morning he again visited Eliza. There was the game voice and smile—perhaps the one was a little fainter—the other, if possible, a little sweeter than at the previous interview. Eliza entered upon a series of cheerful inquiries respecting his studies, his friends, and his purposes: she failed to chase away the deep expression of sorrow that rested upon his brow.