He lifted the hair from his arm, and gently drew his hand from hers; yet, save for the icy coldness of her brow, none would have known that the soul which lent such gentle loveliness to the countenance had flown home to God.

Dr. Bryant pressed a last kiss on the closed eyes and marble brow, softly laid her on her pillow, and left the room.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“All things are dark to sorrow,” and the very repose and beauty of nature seem to the aching heart a mockery.  No violent bursts of grief had followed Mary’s death, for so peaceful and painless was her end, it was scarce allowable.  Yet now that she had been consigned to the quiet grave, a dreary sense of loneliness and desolation crept to the hearts of the saddened group.  They stood assembled at the door of their new home, to bid adieu to Dr. Bryant.  In vain had been his sister’s tears and entreaties, and Mr. Carlton’s expostulations.  Florence had clasped his hand, and asked in trembling accents, why he left them in their sorrow, and Mr. Stewart implored him not to seek death on the battlefield.

Firm in his purpose, naught availed.  He stood upon the step ready to depart; his noble face was very pale, and grief had touched with saddening finger every lineament.  Yet his tone and mien were calm as usual.

“My dear sister,” said he, “in times like these a man should first regard duty—­the laws and precepts of his God! then the claims of his suffering country; and lastly, the ties of nature and the tenderer feelings of his heart.  Ellen, think how many have torn themselves from weeping wives and clinging children, and cast their warm love far from them.  The call to patriots is imperative.  I have now nothing to detain me here:  it is my duty to lend my arm toward supporting our common liberty.  Do not fear for me, Ellen, my dear sister; remember that the strong arm of all-seeing God is ever around us, to guard in time of danger!” He clasped her tenderly to his heart, then placed her in her husband’s arms.

“Florence, if not again in Texas, I hope we shall soon meet, in more peaceful hours, in Louisiana; if not, I pray God that you and Stewart may be as happy as I once hoped to be.”  He pressed her hand warmly, and returning the long, tight clasp of Mr. Stewart, mounted his horse and rode slowly away.

“Mother,” said Elliot, “Uncle Frank has not taken the right road toward home.”

“Hush, Elliot!” she sadly answered, while her tears gushed anew; “he has gone by his Mary’s grave.”

On that hour, spent at the early tomb of the “loved and lost” Mary, we will not intrude:  it is rendered sacred by its deep, unutterable anguish.