A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religion undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for themselves unmistakable evidences:  and, more than all, one being felt it who had not looked upon that man for years—­not since the lines of grief and care had marked the face and form of Duncan Melville.  There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no other voice could give to the prayers which went up to God from one woman’s heart, in the great congregation, for him.  Poor, loving, still-beloved Rosalie!  She was there, her proud, magnificent figure bent humbly from the very commencement to the close of the ceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and grief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblest flower—­the glorious beauty!

And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praise ascended, thought of her in that hour!  Yes, in that very hour he remembered how one would have looked on him that day, could she have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people loved and honoured him.  He thought of her, and as he knelt at the altar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought upon the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon to appear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbed with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when they should look upon her.

Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he might be for a few moments alone.  He was glancing over the sermon (sic) the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud and happy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on the table and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied.  When he had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note and read—­could it have been with careless eyes?

“Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, and witnessed your triumph.  Ten years ago, when I went desolate and wretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny.  Come, to-night, and behold my triumph—­at—­the opera-house!

“Your sister,

ROSALIE.”

Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as to whether he should obey it?  If his bishopric had been sacrificed by it, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended his footsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding!  The love which had been strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was not now to stop, to question or to fear.

“Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagement for you,” he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the cathedral for afternoon service.

“Willingly, my son,” was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her to her word.

But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt to conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an obscure corner of the opera-house that night.  Soon all her expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than the mysterious inattention of her son:  a queenly woman appeared upon the stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail which opens the first scene in——.