On the morning of her interment, Alice, completely prostrated by excess of grief and watching, was assisted to bed, being unable to accomplish even the short distance to her father’s house, and for nearly a fortnight serious doubts were entertained of her recovery.  Her constitution, however, though not naturally strong, enabled her to rally, and in three weeks’ time she was barely able to go home to her family.  On the day following Mr. Hamilton called to see her—­a task to which, under the dreadful weight of his sorrow, he was scarcely equal.  He said he considered it, however, his duty, and he accordingly went.  His visit, too, was very short, nor had he much to say, and it was well he had not; for he could by no exertion have summoned sufficient fortitude for a lengthened conversation on a subject arising from the loss of a child so deeply beloved.

“Alice,” said he, “I know the arrangement entered into between you—­and—­and—­”

Here he was overcome, and could not for a few minutes maintain sufficient calmness to proceed, and poor Alice was almost as deeply affected as himself.  At last he strove to go on.

“You know,” he resumed, “the agreement I allude to.  You were to be sisters, and you were sisters.  Well, my dear Alice, for her sake, as well as for your own, and as she looked upon you in that affectionate light, the contract between you, as far as it now can be done, shall be maintained.  Henceforth you are my daughter.  I adopt you.  All that she was to have shall be yours, reverting, however, should you die without-issue, to my nephew, Henry Woodward; and should he die childless, to his brother, Charles Lindsay; and should he die without offspring, then to my niece Maria.  I have arranged it so, and have to say that, except the hope of meeting my child in death, it is now the only consolation left me.  I am, I know, fulfilling her wishes; and, my dear Alice, you will relieve my heart—­my broken heart—­by accepting it.”

“O, would to God,” replied Alice, sobbing bitterly, “that I could give a thousand times as much to have our beloved Agnes back again!  I have now no sister!  Alas! alas!  I have now no sister!”

“Ah, my child,” he replied, “for now I will call you so, your grief, though deep and poignant, will pass away in time, but mine will abide with me whilst I stay here.  That period, however, will not be long; the prop of my existence, the source of my happiness, is gone; and I will never know what happiness is until I rejoin her and her blessed mother.  Good-by, my daughter; I will have neither reply nor remonstrance, nor will I be moved by any argument from this my resolution.”

He then passed out of the house, entered his carriage with some difficulty, and proceeded home with a heart considerably relieved by what he had done.

It was in vain that Alice and her father did subsequently remonstrate with him upon the subject.  He refused to listen to them, and said, his determination was immovable.