“You will excuse the presumption of a stranger, young lady,” said Lelland, “but unless I greatly err, I see before me the daughter of a much loved friend. Tell me, was not your mother’s maiden name Margaret Gardner?” “Yes, sir, that was her name,” she replied in evident surprise. “I knew I could not be mistaken,” continued Lelland, sighing deeply—then after a pause—“and your—your father—is he with you?” “He is not—but will meet us on our arrival in New York.” “Has your mother been long ill?” inquired Lelland, his voice faltering as he spoke. “She has been declining for several years,” replied the young girl, “but for the last six months her strength has rapidly failed. O, my dear sir,” she added, bursting into tears, “if she should die!” Lelland could not answer—at length he resumed. “And are you then traveling alone, my dear young lady?” “We came as far as Albany under the protection of a neighbor, and the captain of the boat has promised to take charge of us to the city.” “Can I do any thing to aid you? Is there not something you would like to have for your mother? if so, consider me in the light of an old acquaintance, and frankly tell me. My name is Lelland, Richard Lelland—I knew your dear mother when she was but a few years older than yourself;” he paused, and overcome with emotion turned away. Mary took his hand. “I have often heard her mention you. O let me tell her at once that such an old and valued friend is near—she will be so glad to see you!” “No, my dear girl, not now—the surprise might prove too much for her in her present weak state—but allow me to be near you, and call upon me if need require.” Mary thanked him, and then resumed her faithful care of her mother, who was now apparently in an easy slumber; and walking lightly around the settee, Lelland took a seat near the head of the invalid. Who can describe the anguish of his soul as he thus watched over the dying form of his first and only love. And yet, with its bitterness was mingled a strange feeling of happiness, and his heart rose in thankfulness to be near her—even in death! The day was now nearly spent, and the boat shooting rapidly past the beautiful Palisades, when Mrs. Wingate awoke, and complaining of a slight chilliness proposed retiring to the cabin. With difficulty she arose and leaning on the arm of Mary attempted to walk, but she was so feeble she could scarcely stand, and the slender strength of Mary seemed all too frail a support. Lelland immediately advanced, and, averting his face, proffered his assistance. Thanking him for his kindness, Mrs. Wingate placed her arm in his, and carefully supporting her to the cabin, and placing her in an easy commodious seat, he left her to the care of her children. Ah, little did the poor invalid dream whose arm had so tenderly sustained her feeble steps!