“MY DEAR FRIEND: I keep the post-boy waiting while I write to announce the painful intelligence of the death of Mrs. Garnet. She expired suddenly about two o’clock this morning—three hours before you left Huttontown, although we did not receive the sad news of her decease until seven o’clock. The funeral is fixed for to-morrow afternoon at four. Return immediately, if you would be present to pay the last respects to the memory of the sainted dead. May Heaven grant that this season of awful and mutual bereavement may be sanctified to the hearts and souls of the father and daughter, of the father-in-law and the son-in-law, and that you may be all reconciled—each to the other, and all to God—is the prayer of “Your brother in Christian love, “EBENEZER WILSON.” “Why, why was not this letter given me last night?” exclaimed Dr. Hardcastle, in strong excitement. “Because, sir, the mail did not get in until an hour after you had gone to bed.” “Have you any description of carriage here, lighter than my wagon? We must set off instantly, on our return to Huttontown.” “I hope there’s no bad news, sir?” “Yes—my wife’s mother died yesterday.” “Good Heaven, sir; was the poor lady sick when you left?” “No, no—it was unexpected—quite suddenly; we left her in perfect health. Is there any vehicle I can procure?” “Why, sir—dear me, this is very shocking; I am very sorry to hear it. Yes, there’s Mrs. Barber—her old carryall.” “Have my mules put to it on the instant,” said Magnus; and pale with trouble, he went into the little breakfast parlor where Elsie sat at the head of the breakfast table awaiting. His grave demeanor, his troubled face, and the open letter with the broken black seal, alarmed her. Starting up in haste, she rushed to his side. He threw his arms around her, and placed the letter in her hand. Elsie read the first lines. She was too strong and full of blood to faint, but the strength and sanguinity that kept her from falling under the sudden, tremendous blow gave greater energy and passion to her grief. Breaking from her husband’s arms, with a wild shriek she gave herself up to passionate lamentations and bitter self-reproaches. “I should not have left her—I should not have left her! Oh! I see now, it was thoughtless—it was selfish—it was cruel to leave her! If I could scarcely bear my father’s tyranny, how could she? How could she—so delicate, so sensitive! Died suddenly!—oh, yes, done to death—done to death! And to keep it secret for four or five hours—oh!” “Elsie—dear, darling Elsie—hush! Do not say bitter and sinful things, which you will repent.”