The last night (for such she considered it) spent by Amabel in her father’s dwelling, was passed in the kindliest interchanges of affection.  Mr. Bloundel had much ado to maintain his firmness, and ever and anon, in spite of his efforts, his labouring bosom and faltering tones proclaimed the struggle within.  He sat beside his daughter, with her thin fingers clasped in his, and spoke to her on every consolatory topic that suggested itself.  This discourse, however, insensibly took a serious turn, and the grocer became fully convinced that his daughter was not merely reconciled to the early death that to all appearance awaited her, but wishful for it.  He found, too, to his inexpressible grief, that the sense of the Earl of Rochester’s treachery, combined with her own indiscretion, and the consequences that might have attended it, had sunk deep in her heart, and produced the present sad result.

Mrs. Bloundel, it will scarcely be supposed, could support herself so well as her husband, but when any paroxysm of grief approached she rushed out of the room, and gave vent to her affliction alone.  All the rest of the family were present, and were equally distressed.  But what most strongly affected Amabel was a simple, natural remark of little Christiana, who, fixing her tearful gaze on her, entreated her “to come back soon.”

Weak as she was, Amabel took the child upon her knee, and said to her, “I am going a long journey, Christiana, and, perhaps may never come back.  But if you attend to what your father says to you, if you never omit, morning and evening, to implore the blessing of Heaven, we shall meet again.”

“I understand what you mean, sister,” said Christiana.  “The place you are going to is the grave.”

“You have guessed rightly, Christiana,” rejoined Amabel, solemnly.  “Do not forget my last words to you, and when you are grown into a woman, think upon the poor sister who loved you tenderly.”

“I shall always think of you,” said Christiana, clasping her arms round her sister’s neck.  “Oh!  I wish I could go to the grave instead of you!”

Amabel pressed her to her bosom, and in a broken voice murmured a blessing over her.

Mr. Bloundel here thought it necessary to interfere, and, taking the weeping child in his arms, carried her into the adjoining apartment.

Soon after this, the household were summoned to prayers, and as the grocer poured forth an address to Heaven for the preservation of his daughter, all earnestly joined in the supplication.  Their devotions ended, Amabel took leave of her brothers, and the parting might have been painfully prolonged but for the interposition of her father.  The last and severest trial was at hand.  She had now to part from her mother, from whom, except on the occasion of her flight with the Earl of Rochester, she had never yet been separated.  She had now to part with her, in all probability, for ever.  It was a heart-breaking reflection to