It was the evening of the second day from that on which our story opens, and the deep air of silence that reigned in and around the farm-house of Westercleugh, told in language more expressive than the most eloquent words, that death had laid its ice-cold hand on one of the inmates. In the kitchen, close to the window, is seated an aged woman, the mother of the deceased; her hands are crossed on her breast, and her eyes remain immovably fixed on the open pages of the Bible lying on her knee. In appearance she is calm and resigned, for more than three-score years and ten have passed over her head, and old age has somewhat chilled the current of human affection, yet she mourns her sad bereavement; and while lamenting that death should have taken him who was in the prime of manhood and spared the aged, she turns to the Word of God for consolation in her affliction. In another corner of the apartment is seated, or rather reclining, for her head is thrown over the back of her chair, the bereaved wife, in an utter abandonment of grief. Her children stand grouped around her; the elder ones sharing their mother’s sorrow; while the youngest, an infant of not more than two years old, sits smiling and crowing in its little chair. Silence is everywhere maintained; and the servants belonging to the farm tread with the utmost caution as they go in and out in the execution of their accustomed duties, so truly do they sympathise with their mistress in the loss of her husband, and no less deep and sincere is their grief for the loss of a kind and indulgent master. The rays of the setting sun streamed through the casement, lighting up the venerable features of the matron, as though to comfort her, in midst of her grief, with the blissful promise of a future state, where those for ever separated in this world should be re-united in the bonds of love. After gazing for a moment on the brilliant messenger, she arose from her seat, and putting aside her Bible, crossed over to where Mrs. Henderson lay absorbed in grief, and placing her hand on her shoulder, said in a sad, yet firm voice—"Marion, grieve no more for him who has now gone from amongst us! Rouse yourself from that state of useless sorrow; it is the living who require our sympathy and care—the dead need it not. No amount of weeping ran ever restore those who have once crossed the river of death. But, oh! bethink you, Marion, of the happiness, we may humbly venture to hope, our beloved one is now enjoying in the presence of his Maker, for he was a sincere Christian, and strove to do ins duty manfully. Think not," she continued, "because my poor old eyes refuse to weep, that I lightly esteem the irreparable loss I have sustained. During the long period of years it has pleased the Lord that I should sojourn in this vale of tears, I have seen the young whom I loved and the aged fall around me like the leaves of autumn. And what, think you, has strengthened me in