“Nay, my Uncle Achan, you trouble me, indeed; spare me that, let the possessions of our house go whither you list, to yourself or to Salathiel, but let me remain as I am. Give me peace—give me peace and time for my tears, and I will endure the reproach of maiden-widowhood, and let my name be lost from the family of our fathers.” Achan and his friends departed to meet at the house of the widow, and to be of the company of those who should assist in the funeral of her son. Miriam sat in her chamber, looking forth from the closed lattice to mark the first approach of the funeral-train which would pass her aunt’s dwelling on its way to the burying-place that lay beyond the walls of the city. The solemn train at length approached, and the cold, insensible form of her lover lay upon a bier, wrapped round with grave-clothes, and borne forth by men. As she gazed down upon the appalling sight, her heart seemed ready to burst with the grief that had no utterance, and she fell insensible to the floor. When Miriam opened her eyes, they rested upon the forms of her aunt and of Salathiel bending over her. “Was this well, Salathiel? Could you not have spared me one day for grief, must my affections for another be outraged, even in the presence of his passing remains?” “Miriam, my cousin,” said Salathiel, “I came in hither only to assist your aunt. No selfish feeling brought me into your presence. I know where your affections are, I know how deep-seated is your grief. Let me rather, my Miriam, be to you a means of consolation, than an occasion of offence, since my love to your person is less than my sympathy in your grief.” Miriam placed her hand in that of Salathiel, and a gentle pressure signified her appreciation of his feelings—and such a sign, at such a moment, too, told him how hopeless would be his love. He obeyed the sign. “The funeral has passed on,” said she. “It is now near the gate of the city,” said Salathiel. “We shall see it once more,” said Miriam, “as it ascends the hill that overlooks the valley of tombs.” “What is that faith, Miriam,” asked her aunt, “of which you spoke to me yesterday?” “It is but confidence in the promises and power of the teacher.” “Confidence that he will grant your wishes?” “Yes, if they be right, or that if he grant them not, then confidence that the refusal is best.” “Have you that confidence, Miriam?” “Oh aunt, oh my mother, do not tempt me. I would believe; my heart tells me that miracles such as his, could only be performed to attest a momentous truth. But do not tempt me, the body of Reuben is scarcely passed, in him my heart, my affections, my hope were centered—and he is taken from me. Why? is it good for me to be afflicted?” “Could the Master have saved his life, my child?” “Did he not yesterday save the life of the Centurion’s servant at Capernaum,” answered Salathiel, struck with the coincidence of the woman’s question with the recent fact. “Did you ask him, Miriam?”