It is time, from her loss, he had learned lessons of purest wisdom; he had sought and found the grace which he so truly exemplified in life and conduct; nor had the oil and joy of heavenly consolation been denied him, in the period of his sorest need; and though he could not, he dared not, dwell on the billows that swept above that once beautiful form, yet he delighted, in fancy, to visit those regions of bliss, now, as he deemed, her habitation, and to conjecture what the occupation, and what the enjoyment of its thrice-blessed inhabitants:—­

But, “Earth’s children cling to earth; the frail companion, the body, weighs down the soul, and draws it back from the contemplation of high and holy realities;” and thus there were seasons in Arthur Bernard’s experience, when his very heart seemed to die within him, exhausted by its vain yearnings for her who, like an angel of light, had shone upon his path, and then suddenly disappeared; and as he looked forward into the probable future, and beheld life stretching out before him, monotonous and solitary, what wonder that Courage sometimes faltered, and Faith drooped, and Hope almost ceased to cheer the stricken pilgrim.

And such a moment of anguish he experienced now, as he sat in silence, with bowed-down head, while “thought went back to the shadowy past.”  Mr. Denham’s words had thrilled his soul; had presented Agnes’s image to him so vividly, that he could scarcely refrain from giving expression to his anguish in bitter groans; and this was the most trying remembrance, “it might have been” otherwise, had he, to whose care she had been solemnly committed by dying parents, faithfully fulfilled his trust, and instead of frowning on her, had cheered and encouraged her in the path of duty.

But there was one who suffered more than Arthur,—­he who now lay listless on his couch, burdened with a heavy weight of anguish and remorse.  Ah, it was this that deepened the sting of sorrow, that heightened with its bitterness every remembrance that “he alone the deed had done,” and that but for his obstinacy and worldliness, she might even now be standing beside him, bathing his burning brow with gentle hands, and in her own sweet tones be imparting all needful consolation.

But Mr. Denham could bear these thoughts no longer, and hastily rousing himself, he addressed Arthur.

“It is growing late.  Will you be so kind as turn on the gas a little brighter, for it seems to burn but dimly.  I am sure,” he added, in the querulous tones of an invalid, “it is time Mrs. Denham had returned.  She took advantage of your coming to remain with me to visit a sick neighbor, but she must be very ill, indeed, to cause her to remain so long.”

“She will be here very shortly, I dare say,” was Arthur’s reply, as, in compliance with the old man’s request, he closed the curtains on the scene without, and caused the magnificent gaseliers to emit a more dazzling light,—­“and in the meanwhile, if you have no objection, I shall be happy to read to you.”