“Your mother was ill but three days, Dr. Hutton. Upon the first day I wrote to you—upon the third she passed away. It is four days since, so that, you see, you could not have reached here, even by the utmost speed; and so you have nothing to blame yourself for.” “Dead! really dead! dead four days!” he exclaimed, burying his face in his hands. “No, not dead—living in heaven! You know that—try to feel it also,” she said tenderly. He did not reply, nor did he speak again for some time, nor did she break upon the sacred silence of his grief by any ill-judged attempt at consolation. At last he broke forth in bitter lamentation. “Oh, that she had but lived! Oh, that my poor mother had but lived! That her son might have atoned in the last half of her life for the sorrows of her youth! Oh, that my mother had but lived!” “Ah! do not mourn so; believe me, it is far better as it is. There are some lives so wronged, so broken, that nothing but death can set them right. Such a life was hers. There are some sorrows so deep that nothing but heaven can cure them. Such sorrows were hers. Oh! believe me, by all the loving-kindness of the Father, it is better as it is,” said Garnet, kindly pressing the hand she held. “If I could have seen her but once! Oh, Miss Seabright! I thought but little about her in my boyhood, but as I grew to man’s estate the one secret, cherished hope of my heart was to find my mother—to devote my life to her. Oh, that I could have found her; oh, that I could have reached here in time to have seen her living face but once, so as to have known and remembered it.” “Again I say it is better as it is. The tender mercy of God spared you the trial. Would you have carried away in your heart the picture of a countenance transiently distorted by delirium, as the only impression of your mother’s face? Oh, no! Think of her only as she has been described to you in her youthful beauty, or think of her as she is now, in her immortal beauty. She has always been shrined in your heart as a beautiful and sacred memory and hope. Let it be so still, and let the hope be immortal.” She ceased speaking, and both relapsed into silence, that lasted until the door opened and a servant entered, bringing coffee and other refreshments upon a waiter. “Wheel the table forward here, and set the waiter upon it, and then you may go, Pompey,” said Miss Seabright, in a low voice. When they were alone together again Miss Seabright poured out a cup of coffee, and offered it to her guest. He thanked her, but declined it, and dropped his head again upon his hands, and fell into silence and despondency. Miss Seabright put the cup of coffee down and came and sat by his side, and laid her hand upon him again, and said softly: