“I feel how you suffer, Dr. Hutton; and I can imagine that when we have lost a dear friend or dear relative, especially a parent, we should think it almost a sin to take comfort in any way, and selfishness even to refresh the wasted, wearied frame with needful food and sleep. It is so natural to feel so. Fasting and vigil are first compelled by anxiety and grief, and afterward, when all is over, and when nature has reasserted her claims, and made us feel the need of food and rest—still often the heart’s fond superstition will not yield, and fasting and vigil are offered as a tribute to the memory of the lost. It is so natural—but so wrong, Dr. Hutton—the rent garments, and the torn hair, and the ashes sprinkled on the head, and the inordinate worship of grief, belong to pagan bereavement, which is ‘without hope, and without God’—not to Christian sorrow, which should be calmed by resignation and cheered by faith. My friend, you are very weary and depressed—you need refreshment. Come, Hugh, lift up your head; take this coffee from my hand—Nettie’s hand.” As she stooped over him, offering the cup, the ends of her soft ringlets touched his brow, and her breath fanned his cheek. He raised his head, received the refreshment, and gratefully pressed the gentle hand that gave it. When he had drained the cup and set it down, he said: “Miss Seabright, how much I thank you for your sympathy and kindness none can know but God. Dear and gentle comforter, tell me, now, the facts of this sad discovery. When did my mother return, and under what circumstances?” “Had you not better defer hearing the story for the present, Dr. Hutton? You look so tired. Retire early, and sleep well to-night, and to-morrow morning I will tell you everything you desire to know.” “Miss Seabright, I have not slept since I received your letter telling me of my mother’s advent and illness. I shall never be able to sleep until I have heard all you have to tell me of that mother’s history and sorrows. But, Miss Seabright, I beg your pardon—you are so good, that your very goodness has made me selfish, and forgetful of the trouble I may give you. You are doubtless fatigued, and should not be longer harassed by the presence of an exacting egotist like me. If so, let me bid you good-night,” said Dr. Hutton, rising. “Oh, no; sit down; besides, I cannot let you go to-night. You are to remain with us, certainly, to-night—and as many more days and nights as your convenience will permit. Sit down; I am not the least wearied, and if, indeed, you think you will rest better after having heard the story I have to tell you, why, of course, I will willingly tell it. Yes, and upon second thought, I feel that it is better you should hear it to-night. To-night let the grave close in faith over the sad past. To-morrow you will arise with new hope for the future.”