Mary had gazed mournfully on as this mummery was enacted.  A death-bed for a theater, weeping relatives an audience, and Father Mazzolin an amateur performer.  Aunt Lizzy was kneeling beside the Padre, ever and anon invoking the Virgin; while Florence sat with her face in her hands, almost as unconscious of what passed as her dying parent She bent over him now, and in heartrending accents conjured him not to leave her.  He struggled in vain to utter words of comfort; they died away in whispers, and, with a slight moan, the spirit returned to the God that gave it.  The Padre snatched his hat and hastily left the house, while Mary gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of sorrow.  Florence seemed suddenly frozen, so rigid was her countenance, as she gazed on the cold form before her.  She neither wept nor moaned, but closed the eyes with a long, long kiss, and drawing a sheet over the marble features, turned, with a slow, unfaltering step, away.

CHAPTER XII.

  “For now that Hope’s last ray is gone,
  Sure Lethe’s dream would bless: 
  In grief to think of bliss tha’ts flown,
  Adds pangs to wretchedness.”

  Anonymous.

A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening.  In the small dining-room of Florence Hamilton’s humble home assembled the now diminished family circle.  Florence sat sadly apart, leaning her head, with closed eyes, against the window.  The tea bell rang; she lifted her head, glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her brow again on its resting-place.  Mary approached, and taking her hand, said, in a gentle, winning tone, “Come, Florry dear.”

“Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any.”

“But you have not eaten anything to-day, and need something; do try, for my sake.”

“I cannot.  If you knew how both head and heart ache, you would not urge me.”

Mary turned away, and ate the usually joyous meal with a heavy heart.  Florence had left her seat, and was standing in the door:  as her cousin rose from the table she beckoned to her, and passed hurriedly out.  Mary strove to catch her arm but she hastened on, as if trying to escape from herself.  Suddenly she paused by the river side, and clasped her hands convulsively over her head.

“Mary!  Mary! you know not what I suffer.”

“Florry, sit down, and lean your weary head on my shoulder.”

She dipped her hand in the water, and dashed the cold, sparkling drops on her cousin’s burning brow, speaking the while in a low, soothing tone.  Florence rested a few moments in her cousin’s arms, then threw herself on a grassy bank, and covered her face; one long, deep groan alone attesting her mental anguish.  Mary wept more bitterly than she had yet done; still, she was so quiet, none would have known her grief, save from the tears that fell over her hand and arms.  Can it be, that the spirits of departed friends hover near us while on earth, and draw closer in hours of woe?  If so, why is it denied to the suffering one to hear again the dear accents of the “loved and lost?” Why may not their silver pinions fan the burning brow of sorrowing mortality, and the echo of Heaven’s own melody murmur gently, “Peace, peace and joy for evermore?”