Her eyes closed, but the lips still moved, and Floy, bending over her, caught the broken, faintly murmured words, “Home--many mansions--my Father’s house--” Then all was stillness and silence. “Mother, oh, mother! speak to me once more!” cried the girl, pressing passionate kisses on the pale brow where the dews of death already gathered. “Is it well with you, darling mother? No fear? No doubt, no darkness?” A beautiful smile played about the dying lips, and again a faint murmur reached the daughter’s intently listening ear: “All is peace--peace--the sweetest peace; I know that my Redeemer liveth. Trust Him, trust Him; He will--never--leave you.” A gentle sigh, and Floy knew that she was alone. No wail of sorrow broke the deep hush of that death-chamber, no tears fell from the burning eyes of the solitary mourner. They found her with the still form clasped in her arms, her dead mother’s head pillowed upon her bosom, the tearless eyes gazing with mingled love and anguish upon the calm, sweet face on whose unruffled brow Peace had set its signet. The lovely smile yet lingered about the pale lips which to Floy’s ear seemed ever whispering, “All is peace, peace, the sweetest peace.” CHAPTER V. BETROTHED. “We all do fade as a leaf.”--ISAIAH 64:6 “My Adah! let me call thee mine.”--BYRON. “Floy!” Only a word, yet what a world of love and tender sympathy spoke in the tone and in the touch of the hand that gently caressed her hair. The girl started and looked up. “Oh, Espy!” Her cheek dropped again upon the head resting on her bosom, and now the blessed tears came in a flood. Espy, just returning from college, had been scarcely an hour at home when the news came flashing over the wires that about five miles away a terrible railroad accident had occurred, in which several prominent citizens of Cranley, among whom were the Kempers, had been killed or wounded. Nearly frantic with fear for Floy, Espy rushed to the depot, and learning that a special train would be sent immediately to carry aid to the sufferers, hurried home again with the tidings. Mrs. Alden had already packed a basket with such things as she thought might be needed, tied on her hat, and, with a shawl on her arm, stood in the doorway anxiously looking for her son’s return. He came running, caught up the basket, and, giving her his arm, began to retrace his steps, merely saying in a voice hoarse with emotion, “We must make all haste, mother, or we’ll be left.” “Floy?” she cried pantingly, as they almost flew over the ground. “Oh, I don’t know!” he gasped, “there are a thousand reports.” It was only on reaching the scene of the disaster that they learned who, of all their friends, had been killed or injured. What a relief to know that Floy was not of the number! But ah, was she unhurt, with that crushed and almost broken heart?