Mr. Stewart laughed, and opening the door, bade Florence look out; she threw back her long mourning veil, and bent forward; their eyes met, and both started with surprise: 

“Isaac!”

“Miss Florry! sure as I am alive!” and he grasped the white hand heartily.

“I cannot understand this at all!  Isaac, how came you here?”

“Why you see, when the plantation was sold, we were sold with it; that’s how I come to be here.”

“My dear Florence, it is strange, very strange, that I never once thought of your recognizing the servants, though I should have known you could not forget them.  In what capacity did Isaac formerly serve?”

“He was always our coachman; and many a ride in childhood I owe to his kindness and wish to make me happy.  Isaac, I am very glad to see you again.”  And her smile confirmed her words.

Mr. Stewart took the seat by her side, and was closing the door, when the old man interfered.

“Miss Florry, I know old master is dead—­we heard that sometime ago; but where is Miss Mary? that blessed good child, that never gave a cross word to one on the plantation.  Why didn’t she come home with you?”

Florence could not reply, and the tears rolled silently over her cheeks.

“Isaac,” said Mr. Stewart, in a low, saddened tone, “Mary has gone to a brighter home in heaven!  She is happier far than she could be even here with us!  She died about a month ago.”

There was a pause, and then, wiping his rough sleeve across his eyes, Isaac slowly said—­“And Miss Mary is dead!  Well, she has gone to heaven, if ever anybody did! for she was never like common children.  Many’s the time when my poor little Hannah was burnt, and like to die, that child has come by herself of dark nights to bring her a cake, or something sweet and good!  God bless her little soul! she always was an angel!” and again wiping his eyes he mounted the box and drove homeward.

Ah! gentle Mary! no sculptured monument marks thy resting-place!  No eulogistic sermon, no high-flown panegyric was ever delivered, on thy life and death!  Yet that silent tear of old Isaac’s outspoke a thousand eulogies!  It told of all thy kindness, charity, love, angelic purity of heart, and called thee “Guardian Angel” of the house of Hamilton.

Night found Florence sitting alone in the parlor of her old and dearly loved home.  The apartment was much as she had left it five years before, and old familiar articles of furniture greeted her on every side.  She sat down to the piano, on which in girlhood she had practised, and gently touched the keys.  The soft tones, waking the “slumbering chord of memory,” brought most vividly back the scenes of other days.  Again she stood there an only cherished daughter, and her father’s image, as he used to stand leaning against the mantel-piece, rose with startling distinctness before her.  And there, too, stood her cousin, with the soft blue eyes and golden curls of her girlhood; and she fancied she heard, once again, the clear, sweet voice, and felt the fond twining of her arms about her.  Long forgotten circumstances in primitive freshness rushed upon her mind, and unable to bear the sad associations which crowded up, Florence turned away from the instrument, and seating herself on the sofa, gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of sorrow—­