Seeing that I still wept, and hesitated to do her bidding, she arose, gently took the keys from my hands, and unlocked the bureau, where unknown to her I had secreted these touching memorials of a happiness now past forever. With a calmness more piteous to behold than any violent grief, she opened all and read all. Then gently clasping her hands, she sank upon her knees, saying, “I was not worthy of him. Thy will be done, oh God! Thy will be done.” [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIII. +NAPLES AND THE NEAPOLITANS+ MUCH has been said and written by poets and philosophers on the evanescent nature of all earthly joys, and the precarious tenure on which we hold our happiness here below; but while this is indubitally true, let us be thankful that in the divine decrees of a wise Providence, sorrow is of a nature equally transient. The human heart shrinks from suffering and yearns to be blessed. Such is the unerring law of our being, and He who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” mercifully permits Time, that great physician, to pour balm into our deepest wounds, though ever and anon a word, a flower, a perfume, a breath, will cause them to bleed afresh, and throb with exquisite agony. The night shadow which since the death of Reginald Melville had enveloped our little party, had gradually given place to the aurora of renewed hope.— Evelyn by degrees regained her health and cheerful spirits, though she ceased not to reproach herself as the involuntary cause of Reginald’s death. Ella had become very thoughtful, and appeared to us at times to wander in her mind. She frequently said, “Mama, I saw him last night; he bid me pray for him.” Or she would chide us for being sad, “He is happy, dearest mama—he told me so.” Once she said with much solemnity, raising her hand as if to impress her words upon our hearts: “Mother, Reginald bids me tell you he loves you and still watches over you, and you will meet again.” The child frequently spoke of this suddenly, without premeditation, looking up from her book, or her work, or even while nursing her doll. We thought this death had made too deep an impression on her youthful mind, and endeavored as much as possible to divert her thoughts from so melancholy a subject, but we only partially succeeded. She would refer to it again and again, not in sadness, but as if she realized a presence unperceived by others, and was a medium of communication between the land of spirits and the world of sense.