The quiet wedding was over, the routine of the quiet cottage scarcely disturbed by its occurrence, and the quiet bride and bridegroom had returned, the one to his studies, the other to her household affairs, as though nothing had happened. Captain Wilde had returned to his ship, and the pleasant intercourse between the Hall and the cottage resumed. The last night before the departure of Rosalia was at hand, and at the earnest request of Sophie, Mr. and Mrs. Buncombe had agreed to bring her over and spend it at the Hall. Augustus May was also of the party. Rosalia’s trunks had been packed and sent over early in the day, and in the afternoon the family from Grove Cottage rode over. It had been settled that Augustus May should attend Rosalia to the North. The packet that was to convey them to Baltimore lay at anchor under the shadow of the promontory. It was late in the afternoon when the carryall containing Mr. and Mrs. Buncombe, Rosalia, and Augustus, drew up before the gate of the Hall. Sophie met and conducted the party into the dining-room, where a feast had been prepared in honor of Rosalia’s departure. Mr. Withers, pale and emaciated, and propped up in a chair, was also present. It was her last evening at the Hall for some time to come, and so they sat up late. Mr. Withers, from extreme fatigue, retired early, but it was midnight before the remaining members of the party were in bed. Morning dawned, breakfast was over, adieux were wept and kissed, and as the first ray of the rising sun gilded the waves of the bay, Augustus handed and followed Rosalia into the packet for Baltimore. CHAPTER XVI. THE STORY OF FANNY RAYMOND. “Have you seen but the bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o’ the snow Before the soil hath smutched it?” BEN JONSON. The disease of Mr. Withers daily advanced—his health so rapidly declined that he became exceedingly anxious for the arrival of Raymond, who was now hourly expected. “Well, Sophie, my gentle nurse,” said he one day, as she sat by his bedside, “your probation is drawing to a close. You have devoted yourself to me for eight long years, my guardian angel—to what purpose?” “To what purpose?—you have done more good in this parish than any minister who has preceded you for many years; for even Mr. May, with all his excellences, lacked that eloquence—that power of persuasion—that profound knowledge of and potent sway over the human heart, that nothing but sorrow can lend to intellect. Hearts have been moved and elevated, minds aroused and inspired by your wisdom. A spirit has been invoked in this dull neighborhood that may never be still again. I have often thought how infinitely productive is _one_ good word, or thought, or act, its influence extending down generations, still augmenting for ever.”