For ever gone! oh, dreadful fate! 
    Go visit nature—­gather thence
    The symbols of man’s happier state,
    Which speak to every mortal sense.

    The leafless spray, the withered flower,
    Alike with man owns death’s embrace;
    But bustling forth, in summer hour,
    Prepare anew to run life’s race.

    And shall it be, that man alone
    Dies, never more to rise again? 
    Of all creation, highest one,
    Created but to live in vain?

    For ever gone! oh, dire despair!—­
    Look to the heavens, the earth, the sea—­
    Go, read a Saviour’s promise there—­
    Go, heir of Immortality!

From such communings as these the selfish would have turned with indifference; but Mary’s generous heart was ever open to the overflowings of the wounded spirit.  She had never been accustomed to lavish the best feelings of her nature on frivolous pursuits or fictitious distresses, but had early been taught to consecrate them to the best, the most ennobling purposes of humanity—­even to the comforting of the weary soul, the binding of the bruised heart.  Yet Mary was no rigid moralist.  She loved amusement as the amusement of an imperfect existence, though her good sense and still better principles taught her to reject it as the business of an immortal being.

Several weeks passed away, during which Mary had been an almost constant inmate at Rose Hall; but the day of Lady Emily’s fete arrived, and with something of hope and expectation fluttering at her heart, she anticipated her debut in the ball-room.  She repaired to the breakfast-table of her venerable friend with even more than usual hilarity; but, upon entering the apartment, her gaiety fled; for she was struck with the emotion visible on the countenance of Mrs. Lennox.  Her meek but tearful eyes were raised to heaven, and her hands were crossed on her bosom, as if to subdue the agitation of her heart.  Her faithful attendant stood by her with an open letter in her hand.

Mary flew towards her; and as her light step and soft accents met her ear, she extended her arms towards her.

“Mary, my child, where are you?” exclaimed she, as she pressed her with convulsive eagerness to her heart.  “My son!—­my Charles!—­to-morrow I shall see him.  See him! oh, God help me!  I shall never see him more!” And she wept in all the agony of contending emotions, suddenly and powerful excited.

“But you will hear him—­you will hold him to your heart—­you will be conscious that he is beside you,” said Mary.

“Yes, thank God!  I shall once more hear the voice of a living child!  Oh, how often do those voices ring in my heart, that are all hushed in the grave!  I am used to it now; but to think of his returning to this wilderness!  When last he left it he had father, brothers, sisters—­and to find all gone!”

“Indeed it will be a sad return,” said the old housekeeper, as she wiped her eyes; “for the Colonel doated on his sister, and she on him, and his brothers too!  Dearly they all loved one another.  How in this very room have I seen them chase each other up and down in their pretty plays, with their papa’s cap and sword, and say they would be soldiers!”