“My child, I could bear it for myself; but you, my all of earth, my heart’s dearest treasure, to be exposed to poverty and toil for your daily bread—­who have been so delicately reared that the winds of heaven have not been permitted to blow too roughly upon you!  My poor, fatherless darling, how can you bear it?”

“‘God is our father.’  We are not friendless, nor alone.  ’He who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb,’ will guide and guard me.  Let us commit ourselves to His care.”

She knelt down, and the sunshine, stealing in at the window that May afternoon, circled her young head like a glory.  Faint and tremulous rose the sweet voice in prayer, and little widow Graystone’s sobs ceased, and a kind of awe stole over her as she listened.  And a sweet peace filled her soul, for “angels came and ministered unto her.”  Up from the mother’s heart went a pleading cry.  “God keep my darling from harm!” and as she gazed fondly upon the beautiful face before her, with its exalted look of wrapt devotion, a fierce pain struggled at her heart, for she thought of the time in the not distant future, when her only one would be motherless.

One little year ago she had been the imperious woman of fashion, and Clemence had seemed little more than a child, in spite of the seventeen summers that had smiled upon her young head.  Indeed, she had often experienced a feeling akin to contempt at the unworldliness of her daughter, and sighed in secret to see Clemence just as agreeable to Carl Alwyn, the poor but talented artist, as she was to young Reginald Germaine, the heir to half a million.

“Just like your father, my dear,” she would say, scornfully, “and nobody knows what I have suffered from his low notions.  Just to think of his always insisting upon my inviting those frightful Dinsmore’s to my exclusive entertainments, because, years before you were born, Mr. Dinsmore’s father did him some service.  Why can’t he pay them for it, and have an end of it?  It is perfectly shocking!  The idea of bringing me, a Leveridge of Leveridge, into contact with such vulgar people.”

“Mamma!” and Clemence’s fine eyes glow with generous indignation, “how can you speak thus of one of the noblest traits of my father’s character?  I love and honor him for it, and I ask God daily to make me worthy to be the child of such a parent.”

“Well, my dear,” cooly replies mamma, “if it will afford you any satisfaction to hear it, you resemble him in every respect.  In fact, I see more plainly every day, there is not a trait of the Leveridge’s about you, deeply as I deplore it.  I had hoped to have a daughter after my own heart.  I sometimes think you do not wish to please me in anything.”

“Oh!” cried Clemence, “how greatly you misunderstand me.  You do not know how much I love you.  I have often wished that we were poor, so I could have you all to myself, to show, by a lifetime of devotion, what is in my heart.”