Mittie wore the same fair, youthful livery, and a stranger might have mistaken her for one of the brides of the evening--but no love-light beamed in her large, dark, melancholy eyes. She would gladly have absented herself from a scene in which her blighted heart had no sympathy, but she believed it her _duty_ to be present, and when she congratulated the wedded pairs, she tried to smile, though her smile was as cold as a moonbeam on snow. Helen's eyes filled with tears at the sight of that faint, cold smile. She thought of Clinton, as he had first appeared among them, splendid in youthful beauty, and then of Clinton, languishing in chains, and doomed to long imprisonment in a lonely dungeon. She thought of her sister's wasted affections, betrayed confidence, and blasted hopes, and contrasting _her_ lot with her own blissful destiny, she turned aside her head and wept. "Weep not, Helen," said Arthur, in a low voice, divining the cause of her emotion, and fixing on the retiring form of Mittie his own glistening eye; "she now sows in tears, but she may yet reap in joy. Hers is a mighty struggle, for her character is composed of strong and warring elements. Her mind has grasped the sublime truths of religion, and when once her heart embraces them, it will kindle with the fire of martyrdom. I have studied her deeply, intensely, and believe me, my own dear Helen, my too sad and tearful bride, though she is now wading through cold and troubled waters, her feet will rest on the green margin of the promised land." And this prophecy was indeed fulfilled. Mittie never became gentle, amiable and loving, like Helen, for as Arthur had justly said, her character was composed of strong and warring elements--but after a long and agonizing strife, she did become a zealous and devoted Christian. The hard, metallic materials of her nature were at last fused by the flame of divine love. She had passed through a baptism of fire, and though it had blistered and scarred, it had purified her heart. Christianity, in her, never wore a serene and joyous aspect. Its diadem was the crown of thorns, its drink often the vinegar and gall. It was on the Mount of Calvary, not of Transfiguration, that she beheld her Saviour, and her God. Had she been a Catholic, she would have worn the vesture of sackcloth, and slept upon the bed of iron, and even used the knotted scourge in expiation of her sins, but as the severe simplicity of her Protestant faith forbade such penances, she manifested, by the most rigid self-denial and strictest devotion, the sincerity of her penitence and the fervor of her faith. Was Miss Thusa forgotten? Did she sleep in her lonely grave unhonored and unmourned?