After her sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and son sought long, and I cannot tell, you must imagine how anxiously, for the young girl. But their search was in vain, and at last, as time passed on, she became to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow was Rosalie forgotten. And oh! there was in the world one heart at least that sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for her. He had lost her—and Duncan sought for no other love among women. When all his searching for Rosalie was proved to be unavailing, the minister applied himself with constant industry to his profession—he forgot ease and comfort, and personal enjoyment, in the works of his calling. And verily, he met here with his reward, for as he was a blessing to the people of his parish, in turn they almost adored him. He was a spiritual physician, whom God empowered to heal many a wounded, stricken heart; but there was a cross of suffering, that he bore himself, which could not _be_ removed: It was his glory, that he bore it with martyr-like patience; that he never uttered a reproachful word to her, through whom he bore it. As years passed away, the gifted preacher’s impassioned eloquence and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul, with another love than that which he wished to inspire, but he still sought not among any companionship, or close friendship; they said at last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of duty, that “he was too high church to marry;” that he did not believe such union consonant with the duties of a minister of the cross!—But, the mother knew better than this; _she_ knew a name that was never spoken now, in Rosalie’s old home, that was dearer than life to the heart of her son—and desolate and lonely as she was, she never _dared_ ask him to give to her a daughter—to take unto himself a wife! CHAPTER II. In a splendid old cathedral, a solemn ceremonial was going forward on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated. A mighty crowd assembled in this edifice to witness the ceremony, and the mother of Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that great company, for it was her son on whom the high honor was to be laid! How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill that great office, for which he was about to be set apart! He was a man “acquainted with grief;” you had known it by that resigned, submissive expression of his face: you had known that the passions of mortals had been all subdued in him, by the holy light of his tranquil eyes. Duncan _had_ toiled—he _had_ borne a burden.