* * * “It is all over! Indeed, Paul, I am very desolate! ‘The golden bowl is broken’—my poor father has gone to his last home. I was expecting it; but how can we expect that fearful comer—death? He had been for a long time so feeble that he could scarce speak at all; he sat for hours in his chair, looking upon the fire or looking out at the window. He would hardly notice me when I came to change his pillows or to smooth them for his head. But before he died he knew me as well as ever. ‘Isabel,’ he said, ‘you have been a good daughter. God will reward you!’ and he kissed me so tenderly, and looked after me so anxiously, with such intelligence in his look that I thought perhaps he would revive again. In the evening he asked me for one of his books that he loved very much. ‘Father,’ said I, ‘you can not read; it is almost dark.’ “‘Oh, yes,’ said he, ‘Isabel, I can read now.’ And I brought it; he kept my hand a long while; then he opened the book—it was a book about death. “I brought a candle, for I knew he could not read without. “‘Isabel, dear,’ said he, ‘put the candle a little nearer.’ But it was close beside him even then. “‘A little nearer, Isabel,’ repeated he, and his voice was very faint, and he grasped my hand hard. —“‘Nearer, Isabel!—nearer!’ “There was no need to do it, for my poor father was dead! Oh! Paul, Paul!—pity me. I do not know but I am crazed. It does not seem the same world it was. And the house, and the trees, oh, they are very dismal! “I wish you would come home, Cousin Paul; life would not be so very, very blank as it is now. Lilly is kind—I thank her from my heart. But it is not _her_ father who is dead! * * * “I am calmer now; I am staying with Lilly. The world seems smaller than it did; but heaven seems a great deal larger; there is a place for us all there, Paul—if we only seek it! They tell me you are coming home. I am glad. You will not like, perhaps, to come away from that pretty Enrica you speak of; but do so, Paul. It seems to me that I see clearer than I did, and I talk bolder. The girlish Isabel you will not find, for I am much older, and my air is more grave, and this suffering has made me feeble—very feeble. * * * “It is not easy for me to write, but I must tell you that I have just found out who your Carry is. Years ago, when you were away from home, I was at school with her. We were always together. I wonder I could not have found her out from your description; but I did not even suspect it. She is a dear girl, and is worthy of all your love. I have seen her once since you have met her; we talked of you. She spoke kindly—very kindly; more than this I can not tell you, for I do not know more. Ah, Paul, may you be happy! I feel as if I had but a little while to live.