And then one day when the window was darkened, and he missed the pale young face, the heart of the old man smote him as he passed along, and turning he gently sought admittance, and from that time over the bed of the sufferer the thin, white locks of the old man mingled with the golden ringlets of Florence. Heaven surely had first softened his heart, and then guided his footsteps thither, for, like a ministering angel he came to the house of sorrow to soothe the last moments of the dying man, and protect the fatherless child. Cheered once more by the voice of kindness—his feeble frame invigorated by healthful nourishment—surrounded by comforts long unknown, or remembered but as a dream in the dark night of poverty he had passed through—what wonder the sick man rallied, and for a time gave way to the flattering hope that he might yet leave a bright legacy to his child—a name crowned with imperishable fame. His mind, long shattered by sickness, caught back something of the fire of youth, and once more his trembling hand seized the pen as the powerful instrument through which riches and honor were to flow in upon him. But, as the meteor which for an instant shoots over the wave in sparkling beauty, and then sinks in the darkness of the fathomless gulf below, was the momentary out-flashing of that once brilliant mind, ere the darkness of the grave encompassed it. When he felt the power of death too surely pressing upon him, he took the hand of the old man and placed it on the head of his kneeling child with a look pleading for kindness and protection. The heart of old Abel May answered to this silent appeal, and stooping down he imprinted a kiss upon the brow of Florence, solemnly promising never to forsake her. The dying man raised his eyes in gratitude to heaven, and with a last effort clasping his beloved child to his breast, expired. The sad duties left for the living to perform over the venerated dust of those we have loved, were ended with tears and lamentation—and now in the wide world had Florence no friend but old Abel May. “Florence,” said the old man, “I have long since buried the ties of kindred—they could not survive ingratitude and distrust. I had but one left to love—but one whom selfishness and sordid expectations did not bind to me—and now he too has gone. I am now as much alone, my child, as you—I in the winter of age, you in spring’s freshest bloom. You shall be to me as the dearest of daughters, as pure and precious in my eyes as God’s sacred word—although as my wife the world only must know you. Then, Florence, will you give yourself to me; will you look upon me in the light of that beloved parent whose loss you now deplore—will you confide yourself to me in your loneliness and helplessness?” And the innocent girl, lifting her meek blue eyes to the furrowed countenance of the old man, threw herself confidingly upon his bosom, and wept her thanks.