“Fanny! what is it?” exclaimed the husband, pausing upon the threshold.

“That letter-you have some news!  O Paul, you have news of”—­

Her voice died in a breathless flutter; and Mr. Legrange, coming hastily to her side, drew her to a seat, saying tenderly,—­

“No, darling, no news of her,—­not yet, at least.  What made you fancy it?  This is only a letter from your prot‚g‚ at Antioch College:  at least, I suppose so from the postmark.  Do you care to read it now?”

Mrs. Legrange hid her face upon her husband’s breast, trembling nervously.

“O Paul! when I heard you coming up the stairs, such a feeling came over me!  I seemed to feel some great revelation approaching.  I was sure it was news of her.  Paul, Paul, I cannot bear it; I cannot live!  My heart is broken; but it will not die, and let me rest.  O my God! how long?”

“Hush, dearest, hush!  Your wild words are to me worse than the grief we both suffer so keenly.  But, my wife, have we not each other? and would you kill me by your own despair?  Will God be pleased, that, because he has taken away our Sunshine, we refuse all other blessings, and disdain all other ties and obligations?  Fanny, dearest, is it not an earnest duty with you to strive for strength?”

But the mother only moaned impatiently,—­

“O Paul! do not try, do not talk:  it is useless.  When you let fall that crystal vinaigrette this morning, did you tell it that its duty was to be whole, and filled with perfume again?  Do you tell those flowers that it is their duty to be fresh and sweet as they were yesterday? or, if you did, would they heed you?”

“No, darling; for they have neither mind nor soul,” suggested the husband significantly.

“And mine are swallowed up in the sorrow that has swallowed all else.  O Paul! forgive me, and ask God to forgive me; but I cannot, I never can, become resigned.  I cannot live; I cannot wish or try to live.  A little while, and I shall see her.”

She spoke the last words softly, as to her own heart; and over her face passed such a look of solemn joy, such yearning tenderness, mingled with an infinite pathos, that the stronger and less sensitive male organization stood awed and subdued before it.

“Her love and grief are deeper than any words of mine can reach,” thought the husband, and, so, tenderly soothed her head upon his breast, and said no more for several minutes, until, to his surprise, it was lifted, and the pale face looked into his with the pensive calmness under which it habitually hid its more intimate expressions.

“From whom did you say the letter came, Paul?” asked Mrs. Legrange.

“From Theodore Ginniss, I believe.  Will you read it now?” asked her husband, in some surprise at the sudden transition:  for no man ever thoroughly comprehends a woman, no woman a man; and so is the distinctive temperament of the sexes preserved.