After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and son sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie.  But their search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she became to the villagers as one who had never been.  But never by the widow was she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart that sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for her.

He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women.  When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the minister applied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verily he met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the people of his parish, in time they almost adored him.  He was a spiritual physician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and stricken heart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself, which could not be removed.  It was his glory that he bore it with martyr-like patience—­that he never uttered a reproachful word to her through whom he bore it.

As years passed away, the gifted preacher’s impassioned eloquence, and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul with another love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought not among any of them companionship, or close friendship.  They said, at last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of duty, that “he was too high-church to marry,”—­that he did not believe such union consonant with the duties of the cloth!  But the mother knew better than this—­she knew a name that was never spoken now in Rosalie’s old home, that was dearer than life to the heart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, she never dared ask him to give to her a daughter—­to take unto himself a wife.

In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward, on the morning of a holy festival.  A bishop was to be consecrated.

A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother of Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company, for it was on her son that the high honour was to be laid.

How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who, in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill that great office for which he was about to be set apart!  He was a man “acquainted with grief,”—­you had known it by the resigned, submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passions of mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in his tranquil eyes.  Duncan had toiled—­he had born a burden!