"We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our time comes to depart, we will thank God for the happiness we have enjoyed, and look forward to greater." "Your time is at the door, my daughter," said Armstrong, solemnly. "I know that at any moment I may be called, but that does not affect my happiness, or diminish my confidence, that all is well according to the counsel of His will." "I see thee in the shining raiment of the blessed! I behold thee in the celestial city!" exclaimed Armstrong. It was later than usual when the father and daughter separated that night. It seemed as if he were unwilling to allow her to depart, detaining her by caresses when she made suggestions of the lateness of the hour, and assenting only when the clock warned that midnight was passed. Then it was he said: "I do wrong to keep you up so long, Faith. You should be bright and well for an excursion I intend to take with you to-morrow. You will go with me, will you not?" "I shall be delighted. The clear sky," she added, walking to the window, "promises a fine day." "Upon how many new-made graves will to-morrow's sun shine? I wish mine was one of them" "O, do not say so. You will break my heart." "Not willingly. O! I do not pain you willingly. You were not born to suffer much pain. Living or dying, you will be a pure offering to your Maker, my daughter." "Father, how strangely you talk! You are ill." "As well as I shall be in this life. But do not be troubled. To-morrow will make a change." He was near the door when he uttered the last words; and now, as if not daring to trust himself in a longer conversation, he hastily opened it, and proceeded to his chamber. Faith followed his example, pondering sadly over the conversation. It did not escape her, that it was more incoherent than usual, but she had seen persons before under great religious distress of mind, whose peace was afterwards restored, and she doubted not that, in like manner, her father's doubts would be solved, and his spirit calmed. With, her heart full of him, and her last thought a petition on his behalf, she fell asleep. CHAPTER XLI. 'Tis necessity To which the gods must yield; and I obey, Till I redeem it by some glorious way. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.