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bered for months, passed by, while the unavailing search and watching for her return continued. No doubts existed as to with whom she had departed; but how she had gone was a tormenting and dreadful thought for the grieved and disappointed Florence. The deception practised against her by one whom she had loved and tenderly watched over through her life-time, fell with awfully enlightening force upon her. She could not rally; she was almost blinded by it. Through the loneliness and gloom and grief, which settled like a steadfast cloud upon the house after Clara's going, but one ray of brightness and comfort streamed the joyous, half-blind, merry and affectionate little Rose Percy. It seemed to her teacher, her sister, Florence, in those days, that the blessing of the child's mother had indeed taken a tangible form in the person of Rose; and in the girl's constant presence, her true innocence and childliness, she felt that she was finding her real earthly comfort and sustainer. The more sentient companionship of Willis even did not equal that of the guilelessness and dependence of the little one.

After a search of many weeks, which was continued in every imaginable way, the idea of its being crowned with success was abandoned in despair; and then Florence, looking to ONE mighty, and to herself, again turned her attention to her daily tasks, as strong really but still more grave and silent than before that day of dreadful visitation. Was there no other way for her to do than to still toil on? Could she find no safe shelter and retirement from the curious? Yes! Willis Percy had again opened the doors of his home, and entreated her to enter, as its mistress; he had besought her to take his honorable name for her own; he had implored her to accept his protection from the shame and disgrace brought on her own house; and she put away the cup of blessing, and said, "Though I should die, will I be true to myself!'

THE close of the year of Clara's absence found Florence receiving the erring, lost sister of her heart to her lowly home again, with tearless eyes, but prayerful, and therefore not despairing calmness; found her in a consciousness of new need, and still sterner duty, that filled heart and brain with terrific light, seeking and finding strength to not only labor diligently-she had done that always- but in addition, to watch and guard the broken, shattered mind, the feeble life of the poor wanderer. And succeeding days, and months, and years, saw her growing up to the performance of that necessity; and when parted at last from her great human comfort, little Rose, whose mind she had prepared for other instruction than she could give, Florence was compelled to look for relief from her school toils only to the more distressing, because hopeless tasks devolving on her as Clara's guardian.

Of what those months of absence had been to Clara in the proving, Florence never knew; and it was well that she could not know. The name of Gerard never escaped her sister's lips after the time of her return. All energy, all sense, all affection and interest seemed to have been left behind in the outer world of horror from which she had escaped on that night, that wild and dreadful midnight of her return home; that night when Florence heard her beseeching voice above the voice of the storm,

and knowing what and whose it was, hastened to receive the loved and lost one back.

During the five following years of Clara's life, at regular intervals, letters came to her address, (he had not given her even another name!) containing drafts, which, if made use of in the way directed, would have enabled the sisters to live in entire ease, in luxury, had they so chosen. But, though the support of the household now depended on her unaided efforts, for Clara had lost all ability for and knowledge of her former pursuits, those drafts were never 'dishonored' by Florence in making use of them; and they had no other 'sight' than that of fire. She would have perished herself from want, and would have suffered Clara to know the same fate, rather than accept relief from him who had worked them such intolerable wrong..

Those five years passed, and Florence was alone: her sister had gone with the dead. She went not obeying the call of the ALMIGHTY, but at her own bidding. Her insanity or imbecility had taken in the last days of her life a new form: she became utterly mute, as one deaf and dumb, and no word, or sign, or token of understanding could be drawn from her; and it was while this change was causing an increase of dread in the mind of Florence, that all cause for farther watching and sorrow for Clara was removed for ever. She was found drowned. The life of the gentle, and trusting, and deceived, and erring Clara ended with a tragedy.

The teacher had been out with her pupils for a half-day's ramble in the woods, leaving her sister in the house-keeper's charge. The return of Florence and the children to the town led over a bridge which spanned the river D ; and when at night-fall they crossed it, they found themselves awed and trembling amidst a crowd which had gathered at the magic words, 'A woman drowned!' and her eyes were among those gazing with pitying eagerness to distinguish the form and half-hid features of the suicide, and her voice was the faintest of those which broke forth with such grief and horror, when the name of Clara Swaine was once again taken on the lips of a wondering people; and her form was the first to bend, with forgiveness and faithful, fearless love, over the dead.

When it was discovered that life was quite extinct, a litter was hastily procured by the sympathizing multitude; the body was placed upon it, and then for a moment Florence stooped over it, smoothing the drenched and tangled hair and closing the eyelids. As they paused thus in deep silence ere the bier was lifted, the people were compelled to stand hastily back; for a coach with fiery horses cam dashing rapidly over the bridge, and one who rode therein had much to do with that poor dead creature's history. The dust his proud steeds raised fell on the face of Clara. Poor Clara! more pitiable Gerard! She had gone to the judgment: he, in the strength of his pride, and wealth, and years, was going on into the world, whose smiles and cordial greeting would, he well knew, await him wherever he might turn; where his example was to be spread, and where the frown of woman would surely be not raised against him, nor the scorn and scoff of men!

The courage, strength and ability which had, during all Clara's life, and more especially in its last years, increased with every new trial and discouragement, seemned for a time after that death to fail Florence totally.

For a while with high heart she struggled against nature's encroaching self-distrust, weakness and despondency, but then the over-taxed heart failed utterly. The courage, not earth-born, nor earth-sustained, had been long the comfort and sustainer of her soul. Where was it? why had it vanished? Even in the 'patient, never-wearying love' of Percy, which never revealed itself more clearly and generously than now, Florence found no consoler, no sustainer. It was even at one time a source of bitter thought, for it seemed to her as though this love had been given merely to aggravate and to tantalize; proffered as it was to a sense of justice so strict and stern as nature and circumstances had fostered in her soul. But, praise to the Grace that did not then desert her! the wrongful thought was wrestled with and overcome. Religion had been long the great comfort of her soul, and it was not to prove a broken cistern in the time of her great need! And now again her soul put off its sackcloth, and she went on her way willing to live, and thankful that she could live, by faith and not by sight.

For some time Percy and she had been separated by distance, he having gone to take the pastoral charge of a church in Brunswick. On hearing of Clara's death he came at once to Florence, feeling that she had a right to look for him, and a hope that he had cherished for years stood out full in the light as he sought her, to speak consoling and holy words. But stricken as he found her, she would accept no more from him than his Christian sympathy. It would have been no marvel if, when he parted with her again, and stood once more among his people, he had preached to them with a new force, and in a new sense, concerning the SAVIOUR'S 'Be ye perfect,' he carried with him from Florence such an entire conviction that it was possible for mortals to obey the very letter and spirit of the far-reaching injunction.

Percy's last visit to Florence, and the few and brief letters she wrote him, did much for him; the breath of resignation was transmitted from her soul into his, and he began to learn much of that divine patience from her, the patience that could endure even till time was no more, looking for its measure of happiness, denied on earth, to another state of existence. After all the impatience of youth, the love-longing and expectance, peace, calm peace and true submission came, and dwelt within him, comforting him, and precious to him beyond all things, because he knew it was a twin-spirit of the quiet that was in her. That Peace! it was the good Samaritan to him! His early hopes went by all on the other side, and he saw them going, while he lay wounded to the heart, weak and powerless; and then Peace, that very Peace which Florence knew, came to him, bound up his wounds, and left him in the care of the great PHYSICIAN, and HE restored and blessed him.

When the Samaritan's good offices were abiding in the soul, and proving themselves in the daily life which he pursued; while he was receiving calmly, and with intelligent consciousness, the conviction that he was indeed a stranger and a pilgrim on earth, ordained to toil, and grow not weary in his journeying, he was compelled to test his strength, to prove the genuineness of his peace. Tidings came to him, but not through Florence, that an envoy extraordinary had come, seeking her, from England, bearing a recognition and a will from her father, by which she was made

heir to an immense fortune. The story was communicated to Percy through a friend whose word he could not doubt; and acting on the instant suggestion of a thankful heart, he wrote to Florence:

'WHY are you silent? I have waited all this day- it seems a century for words from you. I have had such joyful news of you as I cannot believe you would willingly keep from me. Are you ill? May I come to you? Oh! tell me what you wish me, what I may do. I have no mind of my own left; for I write, Florence, in the overwhelming consciousness that you are happy now beyond all you have dared or allowed yourself to hope. The long ng, the intense desire of your life appears before you in the shape of a full blessing. I dare not think of the way in which you may remember me. It will be your place, power, necessity, to think of me as for the first time in the light of a petitioning lover, for I know all things must now become as it were new to you. You must say to-day to your heart, whether you can love me. I plead nothing; my heart leaves itself wholly to your heart's judgment. You have tried and proved the things of this world; you have a more than ordinary knowledge of life as it is really. If, looking into the inmost recesses of your heart, you find no image of me remaining, do not hesitate to tell me of it. Even in that happening I would not have you forget, unless the assurance is worthless, that I rejoice in your present cause for rejoicing as thoroughly as I have in past times sorrowed in your sorrows. Your friend in truth,

W. PERCY.'

A LETTER and an envoy had indeed come; they had been received by Florence. Judge Browning, one of the most distinguished of England's lawyers, had on his death-bed dispatched this person with a word of recognition and a will, by which his daughter was left a millionaire, and Florence received them. It seemed indeed, in the experience of that day, as though no sorrow were to be spared her, no pang of disappointment. After others had announced to her the glad tidings of the bright fulfilment of her whole life's hope, the stranger came into her presence, satisfied that it was she to whom he bore the acknowledgment of one whom the great men of England reverenced. He laid the letter before her, and with her own eyes Florence read what Judge Browning had written on his deathbed. She read the story of his youth and poverty; of his wife, and of her sufferings and early death; of his child, his only one, whom before her mother died they, in their destitution and misery, left to the care of strangers. No attempt was made in the epistle to palliate the neglect which had continued in his after-years' prosperity. Compensation was made, or the dying man had evidently endeavored to suppose it was made, in giving at the last wealth and name to his child. It was not the thought of this long desertion that spread darkness over the eyes of her who read, that sent sickness into her very soul, that cast a shadow like the shadow of death over her for a moment, when she thought of the child to whom that letter was addressed; of Clara, to whom another hand had been extended, for whom another voice than that of her proud, vainglorious, earthly parent, had said the recognizing words: 'My child!'

Refolding the letter for with that what had she to do?-she returned it to the envoy, and said, 'The recognition is made many years too late. I am not Clara Swaine, to whom you will see this letter is addressed. She was the only child of Judge Browning, if I read aright? She is dead.' 'He had never but one child; but is it possible I do not see that daughter before me? What a dreadful mistake!'

'I must refer you to Mrs. Hammel, the matron of our Foundling Hospital, Sir: she is the one with whom you could most profitably confer now. If the disposal of this property is in your power, do not forget her, and the house of refuge in which she has spent herself. It was a home for Clara many years, as you are probably aware.'

The messenger bowed himself out in silence: he could not find words

wherewith to address the woman who had gone down from the sun-light into the darkness of disappointment, even while his eyes were upon her, in

such calm submission.

X.

DAYS passed on, and Percy's letter was unanswered. Those days were marked for him by wonder, anxiety and impatience; but for her they were recorded as the witnesses of a victory over the last great temptation of Florence Swaine.

But at last, at last she wrote to him. Without and around her, in that hour, were signs and tokens of an approaching departure, noise and confusion: the little cottage, the home of years, was nearly dismantled; one room only was as yet untouched, that in which she had lived long alone with her tried and purified soul. The widowed house-keeper had gone back to the friendly protection of the hospital, and the matron there was bethinking and wondering over a romance she had known in real life. In other dwelling-places beside that of Florence there were evidences of leavetaking, of sundering ties, of sorrow and hope battling together. But there were no homes so desolate as that where she sat alone, writing to Willis Percy, while the soft summer wind was filling the sails of a vessel lying in the harbor, waiting its p: ssengers; a vessel which was that night to go forth on a far voyage to heathendom.

There was a deathly pallor on the face of Florence as she wrote, dimness in her brilliant eyes, but the gathering tears did not fall; and though her hand trembled so violently when she began to write that she could hardly guide her pen, yet was she going forth conquering and to conquer!

'You would have folded me safely in the shelter of your name, WILLIS, while disgrace was on mine. Should you take me now, you would not find the disgrace of doubt removed. You would have defended me, when the harsh judgment of the world had gone forth against mine-mine no longer, by tie of life or of blood! You would have saved me from labor, have shielded me from sorrow, had it been in your power; and now, when, if I dared or could I would cry, Take me!' you fold your arms, you look on me distrustfully, fearing for the constancy, the trueness of my heart's love for you, because you think I am in prosperity! Give me back your old confidence; indeed, indeed I deserve it, if I ever did. Do I not need it! Oh! noblest heart! believe me, it is my joy and consolation in this hour, the last, the very last spent in my native land, to think that I have been permitted to love you.

You have learned probably by this time that it was on Clara the too-late blessing fell; that I have always been unconnected b. natural ties with her, with any whom I know. From me you will learn that I am going now, at once, to give my future years, my strength I have strength yet, dear WILLIS my years, my strength and talents, to the service of our MAKER. It matters little whether that service be rendered here or afar. Do not call it weakness that leads me hence. I might fail here. I must free myself from the recollections which are so closely associated with this place. I should have asked your counsel, had 1 not seen my duty to myself and my GOD 80 clearly pointed out, that I dare not shrink from its performance- I cannot shrink. You know of this party of Christians about to sail for India. Some of them are our own personal friends; and I know that did I consult you merely as a Christian pastor might be consulted, you would say to me. Listen to that voice within you; pray to Gon; and then act as your judgment shall decide.' This I have done, and nothing remains for me but to say to you, Farewell. Farewell! We are not parting for ever. I know we shall not meet again in this life; I shall never hear your voice; you will not see my face again. Had I thought that we were equal to a calm parting, I would have called you to me. Farewell! Our help is in the name of the LORD;' we are His servants. Let us be faithful: He will not disown us.

In the bonds of faith, and fellowship, and love, yes, by the grace of God, your

'F. 8.'

Florence

THE Vessel had sailed ere this letter reached its destination. looked her last upon her native land. Thenceforth was she no more to Willis Percy, but as much as an angel-thought, a guardian, soothing and su-taining angel-thought. Her going left him in one sense peculiarly and sadly alone; and yet, could he have done so, he would not have called her back. In his imagination he saw her going, as she really did, calmly,

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