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Page 25
One evening Dr. Bryant, having administered a soothing potion, turned
to her and said, "My dear Miss Hamilton, you will seriously injure
your health by such constant watching. Your father needs nothing now
but quiet. Let me entreat you to go out for a short time; the air will
refresh you, and your aunt will remain with Mr. Hamilton." He drew her
reluctantly from her seat as he spoke, and whispered Mary to accompany
her.
Drawing her arm round Florence, Mary turned in the direction of their
accustomed rambles, but her cousin said, "I am too weary to walk far,
let us go to our old seat by the river."
The stream was only a few yards distant, and they seated themselves
on a broad, flat stone, beneath a cluster of pomegranate and figs. The
evening was beautifully clear, the soft light which still lingered in
the west mellowing every object, and the balmy southern breeze, fresh
from "old ocean's bosom," rustling musically amidst the branches
above. As if to enhance the sweetness of the hour, and win the
mourners from their sad thoughts, the soothing tones of the vesper
bells floated afar on the evening air; distance had softened them, and
now they sounded clear and Eolian-like. The river eddied and curled
rapidly along at their feet; and ever and anon, the stillness that
seemed settling around was broken by the plunging fish, that gambled
in hundreds amidst its blue waters.
"How calm and holy this stillness seems! Florry, does it not cause
you to lift your heart in gratitude to the 'almighty Giver' of so many
blessings?"
"All things are dark to sorrow;" replied Florence, and folding her
arms across her bosom, she dropped her head wearily upon them.
"Oh, Florry, do not give up so! I cannot bear to hear your despairing
tone. Still hope; your dear father may be spared to us;" and she put
her arms caressingly around her.
"Hope!" echoed Florence; "I have ceased to hope that he will recover.
I know that he cannot; and in a few hours I shall be alone in the
world. Alone, alone!" she repeated the words, as if fully to realize
the misery in store for her. "O God! why hast thou not taken me
before? Take me now; oh, in mercy, take me with him!"
In vain Mary strove to soothe and console her; she remained perfectly
still, her face hid in her arms, and replied not to her anxious
questionings. A long silence ensued, and Mary wept. A feeling of
desolation began to creep over her; a second time she was to be thrown
on the wide, cold world. She thought of her uncle's generosity and
unvaried kindness during the many years she had dwelt under his roof,
and scarcely felt that it was not her own. And then there stole up
the image of her lost mother; the wan, but saint-like face, and the
heavenly smile with which she pointed upward, and bade her child
prepare for the glorious union, in that mansion which Jehovah assigned
to those who are faithful on earth.
Poor Mary's heart was sad indeed; yet there was no bitterness in
her soul, no rebellious feelings toward Almighty God, who had thus
afflicted her so sorely. She wiped away her tears, and calming herself
as much as possible, repeated, in a faltering voice, the beautiful
hymn commencing "I would not live always." She paused at the
conclusion of the second verse; but Florence did not lift her head,
and hoping to cheer her, she finished the hymn.
Twilight had fallen on the earth, and the blue vault of heaven was
studded with its myriad lamps. The new moon glittered like a golden
thread--low in the west--and seemed almost to rest upon the bosom of
the stream, as it curved in the distance to meet the horizon.
"Come, Florry, you must not stay out so late; I am afraid you will
take cold!"
Florence rose mechanically and accompanied her.
"Oh, Florry, do try and trust in God, and believe that in every trial
and affliction he will comfort and assist us."
Her cousin sighed heavily, but made no reply.
As they reached the gate it was quickly opened, and the Padre met
them: he bowed coldly to Mary, but shook hands with Florence, and
promised to come again the ensuing day. It was so late that Mary could
not distinguish his features; but just as he turned to go, Aunt Fanny
threw open the kitchen door, and the light streamed full on his
face; their eyes met, and she started at the smile of triumph that
irradiated his dark countenance: he bowed, and passed on.
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