In this tumult, my heart awoke. Its dead and sullen inaction gave way to a vivid feeling of reality--and as if I had known it now for the first time, there burst upon me the full sense of my father's death. Yes! for the first time I felt to my heart, how desolate I was, and with a bitter satisfaction I remembered that I had nothing to wean me from my grief, nothing to distract the mourning of my orphanhood--no wooing tender happiness to lead me away from the grave where I would build all my thoughts. Yet now, also, for the first time I remembered what he had said upon his death-bed--strange words for him, "one event should not poison a life." I thought I heard the echoing round me of his failing voice--the voice I should hear no more; and I threw myself down before the bed, kneeling and covering my face in passionate and bitter weeping. My father! my father! where was he? where? When I rose from my knees, it was quite dark. I do not think any one can be in great or real grief without trying to pray. I prayed little in the stupor of my misery, but now broken wandering disconnected petitions came to my lips among my tears. When I appealed to God, though ever so feebly, and, alas! so little as I knew of him! it calmed me in some degree. I rose and bathed my face to put away the tears--I was subdued and melted--my eyes filled in spite of myself. I did not weep over the death-bed or the grave. I felt now as if I could weep continuously, and that it was impossible to stay my tears. Then I heard a timid step without; I knew it was Alice, and by-and-bye she came softly knocking at the door--under the door crept in the light from her candle. I remembered with a bitter pang the last time she came to me in the darkness--the night of my betrothal. When I thought of that, I rose firmly and admitted her. How I was changed! Alice came in with a hesitating step, looking wistfully at me to see how far she might venture. Alice was greatly shaken with the events of these last few days. The bright look on her face was overclouded, she was humble and deprecating and uneasy. I had been her child, loving, confiding, almost depending upon her--and there was such a dreary difference in everything now. She set the light upon the table, and lingered looking at me. I fancy she saw some encouragement in the glance of my wet eyes and the softening of my face. She came behind me under the pretence of doing something, and then she said timidly, "Miss Hester, may I speak?" I could not say no. I did not answer at all, and she took this for permission. "You think every one's deceived you, dear," said Alice humbly, "and in your great trouble you stand by yourself, and will let nobody help you. I don't deny, Miss Hester, every one's done wrong; but, darling, it was all for love of you." "Do not say so, Alice," I exclaimed, eagerly, "you insult me when you speak thus."