They found her as we have described. They shared her grief, for they had both become strongly attached to those whose sudden, untimely, and terrible death she mourned. “Thank God for those tears!” sobbed Mrs. Alden. “Dear child, our loss is her gain; and she has gone to be with the husband she loved so well. The Lord was good to both in letting them go together.” “Yes,” whispered Floy, laying her precious burden gently down. Wiping away her tears, she pressed one more long, lingering kiss upon the pale lips, then turned, and giving her hand to Espy, suffered him to lead her from the room. Truly the girl’s heart was overwhelmed. Her adopted father--whom, until within the last hour, she had deemed in very truth her own--was only less dear than his wife, and the double bereavement, so sudden, so terrible, was enough to crush her young spirit to the earth; and yet was there an added depth of anguish in the thought of the strange revelation made to her by that beloved dying voice. It seemed to rob her of the full right to the poor luxury of grief. Others also were nearer by the ties of blood; yet oh, it could not be that any other loved them with half the strength of devotion that filled her heart, that any could mourn for them as she who for sixteen years had been enshrined in their affections, and lived continually in the sunshine of their love! She could not bear to tell this sorrow to any earthly creature; not even Espy must know the sad secret. There was only One into whose ear she could pour out _all_ her griefs. That she could tell Him all and know that He listened--that in all her afflictions He was afflicted--saved the poor heart from breaking. Mrs. Kemper had been an only child; Mr. Kemper had outlived his brothers and sisters; so that there were no nearer relatives than nephews and nieces, all of whom resided at a great distance. Word was sent to those whose addresses were known, but they were not waited for, as it was impossible they should arrive in time for the funeral. The Aldens were very kind, treating Floy quite as if she belonged to them, and relieving her of every care in regard to the necessary arrangements for performing the last offices of love to the departed. It was the evening of the day on which she had looked for the last time upon the dear faces of the loved and lost. At her own request sympathizing friends had all withdrawn and left her alone, and Espy, coming softly into the parlor unannounced, found her weeping bitterly before Mrs. Kemper’s portrait. “Floy, dearest Floy, my own little wife, would that I could comfort you!” he whispered, taking her in his arms. “You have been--you are a great comfort to me, Espy,” she said, gently releasing herself. “Then why may I not embrace you, dear Floy? Ah, I understand! it is because there has never been a formal engagement between us. But we know we love and belong to each other. Is it not so? Darling Floy, promise to be my wife.”