CHAPTER II.

"A parent's love! We do not know
The blessing till 'tis fled;

I seem to love more fondly now,
My mother, now thou'rt dead.
Oh, how unwearied was the care
Of love which nothing could impair,
Though oft thy heart hath bled;
Thy love, through every scene the same,
Unquenched, undimmed, affection's claim!

But I can never show thee more

The love I feel for thee;

A love I never knew before

Till thou wert reft from me.
Yet it shall be a sad relief,
A mournful solace to my grief,
To love thy memory;

Oh! never shall thy name depart,
Thou hast a temple in my heart."

As soon as Ethel had recovered sufficient calmness she rose from her knees, remembering that her father and the rest of the family must be informed of this sudden stroke. The sad throbbings of anguish still continued, but there was strength given her to command her emotions sufficiently to prepare her father, sister, and brother gently for the tidings of her mother's death. All was now confusion; and through the silence of night, lights gleamed and

shadows moved to and fro, in noiseless bewilderment and solemn fear. For death in a household ever brings a feeling of awe and stillness; the loud voice is hushed, and the heavy step moves quietly through the darkened chambers. Mr. Woodville was shocked; the stroke had come unexpectedly, and the stern man was stunned by it. For some days he indulged in a sort of gloomy sorrow, refusing to take part in any arrangements for the funeral, and shutting himself up in his study. He could no longer stifle the rebukings of a conscience which was stinging him bitterly for all his harsh, cold treatment of his wife.

Laura's sorrow was selfish and violent for a while, and she gave way to passionate outbursts of grief, extremely painful to those around her, causing her sister much additional fatigue and anxiety. Harry, whose affection for his mother had been warm and impulsive, suffered acutely; but he was not so selfish as Laura, and, in grieving for her who was gone, did not forget how she would have wished him to act at such times as the present, and therefore endeavoured to assist Ethel in all the arrangements which devolved upon her. Little Minnie could not at all understand death, or why people should cry and the rooms should be darkened, and her mother's form be so cold and rigid. She wept bitterly when Ethel took her to see her mother after she was placed in the coffin, for Ethel had told her, "Mamma was going to be taken away to the churchyard." Ethel placed her on her knee and talked gently to her, dwelling on her mother's happiness in heaven, and the blessed hope they might have of meeting her again. "And dear mamma gave Minnie to Ethy's care before she died, and told her to try and make her a good girl, and to teach her to love and

serve God. Minnie will try to do all dear mamma wished, will she not ?" concluded Ethel.

"Oh, yes, me will. Minnie loves you very much, more than any one, 'sides mamma; but I wis she would come back," said the child.

"And so does Ethy," replied Ethel, hiding her head amid the dark-brown hair of her little sister, while she allowed her tears to flow unrestrainedly.

Ethel was a girl whose intensity of feeling the world seldom guessed; her manner gave the impression that she was amiable and excellent, but too impassive to love devotedly: while Laura, whose impulsive disposition rendered every passing emotion apparent, frequently received the credit of having far more heart than Ethel. "The stillest waters are the deepest." Ethel's feelings were too deep, too sacred to be revealed to the world, and all the more intense from the control she generally exercised over them. Few knew what Ethel really felt at her mother's death, for her deep sorrow was not intruded upon every casual acquaintance as her sister's was.

Her tearless eyes and calm, pale face, though touchingly beautiful to the beholder, did not convey the idea of feeling which Laura's wild bursts of sorrow did.

Mrs. Woodville was interred at a village about two miles from Carysford, a quiet country place beyond the noisy hum of the town, and where her children also were buried. Soon the once beautiful form was laid in its cold, dark bed, to sleep until the morning of the resurrection, when the trumpet of the archangel shall sound, and the souls and bodies of those who sleep in Jesus shall be reunited, and dwell for ever with him in perfect happiness.

Soon, also, the loving, suffering wife and mother,

seemed to fade from the remembrance of the family, except of Ethel and her little sister. Household duties, business, all were resumed, and the usual routine continued as if death had never visited the house. Mr. Woodville soon stifled the reproaches of conscience, and listened to its warnings no longer. Laura's wild grief had exhausted itself in tears and lamentations, and she ceased to mention, and seldom even to think of, her mother. The entire domestic management devolved upon Ethel now, for Laura was worse than useless in discharging such duties. Ethel found it quite necessary to throw all her own time and energy into the work to ensure anything like punctuality and regularity, to make things comfortable for her father. Mr. Woodville had no objection to spend money upon his own pleasures, but was extremely penurious in allowing it for household expenses, so that Ethel found much increase to her cares in studying the strictest economy.

*

"Cold beef again to-day, I declare! Humph! Really, Ethel, I wish you would contrive to manage better. How can I, with any comfort, ask a friend in to lunch with such a provision as this? —a thing I had nearly done this morning," exclaimed Mr. Woodville, as he seated himself at the dinner - table one day, about six months after Mrs. Woodville's death.

"I am really very sorry, papa, but as it was washing-day, and the servants were busy, I thought you would not mind: there are some chops in the house which can be easily cooked now, if you would like them," replied Ethel.

"I have no time to wait now; but don't let this occur again," replied her father, who was, after all,

not so irritable as usual, having had a very successful morning. "I have seen the owner of Thurlston this morning, and have secured his business, I am glad to say, which will be of immense value to me," Mr. Woodville said, after a little while.

"Oh! did you go to Thurlston? How does it look? Do tell me who was there, and all the et cæteras, papa !" exclaimed Laura.

"I went to Thurlston, which is most handsomely fitted up quite a palace in elegance and beauty of arrangement. I find Mr. Raymond has a sister living with him, who is a very pleasing and agreeable girl."

"And is there no Mrs. Raymond? And what is Mr. Raymond like? Is he old or young ? Plain or handsome? Agreeable or not?" inquired Laura, eagerly.

"Pon my word you are unsparing in your questions. There is no Mrs. Raymond, and Mr. Raymond is a young man. As to his appearance, I suppose you ladies would designate him very handsome; and certainly his manners, notwithstanding a certain degree of haughtiness, are those of a perfect gentleman. I think he will be a great acquisition to the neighbourhood," said Mr. Woodville, who was anxious that his daughters should feel an interest in the owner of Thurlston.

"What a treat! to see at last a handsome man in Carysford!" exclaimed Laura, in an ecstasy. "And his sister, papa, what of her?" inquired Ethel.

"Oh! she's an intelligent young lady enough; not equal to her brother though, but a girl whose acquaintance is well worth cultivating. I wish you to call upon her early, it will only be proper to do so," returned Mr. Woodville.