The morning after, you are standing with your party upon the steps of the hotel.  A letter is handed to you.  Dalton remarks in a quizzical way, that “it shows a lady’s hand.”

“Aha, a lady!” says Miss Dalton,—­and so gayly!

“A sister,” I say; for it is Nelly’s hand.

“By the by, Clarence,” says Dalton, “it was a very pretty sister you gave us a glimpse of at Commencement.”

“Ah, you think so;” and there is something in your tone that shows a little indignation at this careless mention of your fond Nelly; and from those lips!  It will occur to you again.

A single glance at the letter blanches your cheek.  Your heart throbs—­throbs harder—­throbs tumultuously.  You bite your lip, for there are lookers-on.  But it will not do.  You hurry away; you find your chamber; you close and lock the door, and burst into a flood of tears.

V.

A Broken Home.

It is Nelly’s own fair hand, yet sadly blotted,—­blotted with her tears, and blotted with yours.

——­“It is all over, dear, dear Clarence!  Oh, how I wish you were here to mourn with us!  I can hardly now believe that our poor mother is indeed dead.”

——­Dead!—­It is a terrible word!  You repeat it with a fresh burst of grief.  The letter is crumpled in your hand.  Unfold it again, sobbing, and read on.

“For a week she had been failing every day; but on Saturday we thought her very much better.  I told her I felt sure she would live to see you again.

“‘I shall never see him again, Nelly,’ said she, bursting into tears.”

——­Ah, Clarence, where is your youthful pride, and your strength now?—­with only that frail paper to annoy you, crushed in your grasp!

“She sent for father, and taking his hand in hers, told him she was dying.  I am glad you did not see his grief.  I was kneeling beside her, and she put her hand upon my head, and let it rest there for a moment, while her lips moved as if she were praying.

“‘Kiss me, Nelly,’ said she, growing fainter:  kiss me again for Clarence.’

“A little while after she died.”

For a long time you remain with only that letter, and your thought, for company.  You pace up and down your chamber:  again you seat yourself, and lean your head upon the table, enfeebled by the very grief that you cherish still.  The whole day passes thus:  you excuse yourself from all companionship:  you have not the heart to tell the story of your troubles to Dalton,—­least of all, to Miss Dalton.  How is this?  Is sorrow too selfish, or too holy?

Toward nightfall there is a calmer and stronger feeling.  The voice of the present world comes to your ear again.  But you move away from it unobserved to that stronger voice of God in the Cataract.  Great masses of angry cloud hang over the west; but beneath them the red harvest sun shines over the long reach of Canadian shore, and bathes the whirling rapids in splendor.  You stroll alone over the quaking bridge, and under the giant trees of the Island, to the edge of the British Fall.  You go out to the little shattered tower, and gaze down, with sensations that will last till death, upon the deep emerald of those awful masses of water.