“What is all this?” said he at length, glancing at his eldest daughter. She could not answer. Gwyneth whispered, “Mamma――I want mamma.” Hilary looked up hastily and fearfully at her father’s face. A sadder shade swept over it, like the darkening gloom which precedes the heavy shower; then it passed away, and the quivering lip was still. “Hilary, love, does she not know?” said he, gently, and drawing her close to him. Hilary conquered the rising inclination to give way to tears; it was a hard struggle first, however, but she felt she must answer, and to her own surprise her voice came. “I tried, papa, to tell her; but she would not believe――she can not understand――she is so young, and feels so acutely; oh, papa! it was my fault, I did not know how!” “My poor child,” said he, as he stooped and kissed her forehead, after anxiously scanning her pale cheeks and weary eyes; “you have had no rest; you have overtasked yourself: you should have gone to bed.” “Never mind me, papa dear! I shall do well enough, but let me take Gwyneth back, she will be cold. Come Gwyneth.” But the child rebelled again, clung to her father, and seemed about to renew her shrieks. “Hush, hush! this will not do,” said he, “this must not be. Be still, Gwyneth, and you shall see your mother once more.” He stepped into the darkened room, whose grave and solemn aspect hushed the mourner’s emotion at once. He opened one shutter a little way; the bright morning sun streamed in upon the white bed-curtains, and danced upon the toilet-glass. He brought his young daughter, clinging to his arms, to the bed, drew back the curtain, lifted the sheet, and Gwyneth’s eyes fell on the cold, still face of her, for whom she had called in vain. Words can not describe the feelings of a child thus brought face to face with death. The dead flower appears as a shriveled atom――the extinguished fire presents an uncouth heap of ashes――the setting sun vanishes from our sight――these speak for themselves, here the change is real, perceptible, obvious; but the soul departed leaves the body the same, and yet how different, how slight, yet how immense the alteration. Lost in wonder, unable to realize what is gone, the child gazes in unspeakable awe at what remains――death, is that death? it looks but too like a profound and happy sleep; for a moment the eye is deceived: but to the touch the truth is at once revealed, and the young finger shrinks, and never again forgets the strange, cold, unyielding, icy feeling of the dead. For years it will thrill through her frame.