The teacher who officiated as chaplain was seated before a large desk, on which lay an open Bible.  He seemed about twenty-four, his countenance noble rather than handsome, if I may make so delicate a distinction.  Intelligence of the first order was stamped upon it, yet the characteristic expression was pride which sat enthroned on his prominent brow; still, hours of care had left their impress, and the face was very grave, though by no means stern.  His eye was fixed on the door as the pupils came in, one by one, for prayers, and when Florence and Mary entered, it sunk upon his book, In a few moments he rose, and, standing with one arm folded across his bosom, read in a deep, distinct tone, that beautiful Psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd.”  He had only reached the fourth verse, when he was interrupted by two girls of twelve or fourteen, who had been conversing from the moment of their entrance.  The tones grew louder and louder, and now the words were very audible: 

“My father did not send me here to come to prayers, and Madame has no right to make us get up before day to hear him read his Bible!”

Many who coincided with them tittered, others stared in silence, while Florence’s lip curled, and Mary looked sorrowingly, pityingly upon them—­hers was the expression with which the angel multitudes of Heaven regard their erring brethren here.  The chaplain turned toward them, and said, in a grave yet gentle voice, “My little friends, I am afraid you did not kneel beside your bed this morning, and ask God to keep your hearts from sinful thoughts, and enable you to perform all your duties in a humble, gentle spirit.  In your present temper, were I to read the entire book instead of one Psalm, I fear you would receive no benefit.”

The girls were awed more by the tone than words, and sat silent and abashed.  The reading was concluded, and then he offered up a prayer earnest and heartfelt.  Instead of leaving the room immediately, the pupils waited as for something, and taking a bundle of letters from the desk, their tutor distributed them as the direction indicated.

“My budget is not so large as usual, and I regret it for your sakes, as I fear some are disappointed.  Miss Hamilton, here are two for you;” and he handed them to her without looking up.

“Two for Florry, and none for me?” asked Mary, while her voice slightly trembled.  He was leaving the room, but turned toward her.

“I am very sorry, Miss Mary, but hope you will find a comforting message in your cousin’s.”

Gently he spoke, yet his eyes rested on Florence the while, and, with a suppressed sigh, he passed on.  “Come to my room, Mary; it is strange the letters are postmarked the same day.”  And while she solves the mystery, let us glance at her former history.

CHAPTER II.

  “Calm on the bosom of thy God,
    Fair spirit! rest thee now! 
  Ev’n while with us thy footsteps trod,
    His seal was on thy brow.”