“My father,” said Frank, speaking in a husky voice, while his eyes filled with tears, “had heard of it before he received my letter.  I might have known that the lighthouse signals would take it fast to Liverpool.  I had written a few lines to him saying I was going to you; happily they never reached—­that was spared to my dear father.”

Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that passed between father and son.

“My mother?” said she at last.

“She is here,” said they both at once, with sad solemnity.

“Oh, where?  Why did not you tell me?” exclaimed she, starting up.  But their faces told her why.

“Edward is drowned—­is dead,” said she, reading their looks.

There was no answer.

“Let me go to my mother.”

“Maggie, she is with him.  His body was washed ashore last night.  My father and she heard of it as they came along.  Can you bear to see her?  She will not leave him.”

“Take me to her,” Maggie answered.

They led her into a bed-room.  Stretched on the bed lay Edward, but now so full of hope and worldly plans.

Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie.  She did not get up from her place by his head; nor did she long avert her gaze from his poor face.  But she held Maggie’s hand, as the girl knelt by her, and spoke to her in a hushed voice, undisturbed by tears.  Her miserable heart could not find that relief.

“He is dead!—­he is gone!—­he will never come back again!  If he had gone to America—­it might have been years first—­but he would have come back to me.  But now he will never come back again;—­never—­never!”

Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night-wind die in the distance; and there was silence—­silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate words of grief.

And to this day it is the same.  She prizes her dead son more than a thousand living daughters, happy and prosperous as is Maggie now—­rich in the love of many.  If Maggie did not show such reverence to her mother’s faithful sorrows, others might wonder at her refusal to be comforted by that sweet daughter.  But Maggie treats her with such tender sympathy, never thinking of herself or her own claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton, Nancy, and all, are reverent and sympathizing too.

Over both old and young the memory of one who is dead broods like a dove—­of one who could do but little during her lifetime—­who was doomed only to “stand and wait”—­who was meekly content to be gentle, holy, patient, and undefiled—­the memory of the invalid Mrs. Buxton.

“There’s Rosemary for remembrance.”

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