“Surely there is no need of dwelling on such mournful things, Clarissa.  Nora is not so ill that we need think the worst, much less talk about it.”

“Nora likes to hear me repeat her favorite poem,” replied Clarissa; “and, dear Mrs. Stanhope, let me say one thing to you.  If our darling is to live only to suffer through long years of pain, can you wish for life for her?  Why should we wish to keep her here, where she cannot enjoy the smallest part of the wealth and beauty about her, rather than let her go to that heavenly home, where there is no more sorrow nor pain?”

“I cannot bear the thought of parting from her; it must not, it cannot be.  Why may not all yet go well, and Nora get strong again?” said the poor mother; and the heart within her was heavy with grief.  She could say no more, and withdrew in silence to her own room.

The great stone mansion was soon wrapped in stillness; and as the light of the summer moon shone down upon it, whoever had seen it standing there in stately beauty, its high white pillars gleaming through the dark trees, would surely have thought: 

“How beautiful it must be to live there!  No care nor sorrow can reach the inmates of that lovely dwelling!”

Mrs. Stanhope occupied her paternal home on the banks of the Rhine.  She had married an English-man when very young, and had lived in England until his death, when she returned to the home of her childhood, unoccupied since the death of her parents, bringing with her two little children, the brown-eyed Philo, and his delicate, fair-haired sister, Nora.  The faithful Clarissa, who had taken care of Mrs. Stanhope in her childhood and who had accompanied her to her foreign home, loved these children as if they were her own.  The little family had now lived several years in this beautiful house on the Rhine; a very peaceful and regular life it was, one day like another; for the children were delicate and could bear no exciting pleasures.  Two years ago a heavy sorrow dropped its dark shadow over the household.  Little Philo closed his dark eyes forever, and was laid to rest under the old linden-tree in the garden, where the roses bloomed all summer long.  Nora, who was only a year younger than her brother, was now in her eleventh year.

In about a week after his first visit, the doctor came again.  He had heard from his friend, the physician, who had willingly offered to find a house for Mrs. Stanhope near his own, in the little village of Buchberg, among the mountains.  Mrs. Stanhope might set out as soon as she pleased.  He would answer for all being in readiness to receive her.

In a few days they were ready to start.  Clarissa was to remain behind to put the house in order, and only a young maid-servant went with them.  As the carriage rolled away, bearing Mrs. Stanhope and her little daughter on the way to Switzerland, Clarissa gave them many a God-speed, and, turning back into the empty house, she wiped away the tears she could no longer repress, saying softly to herself: