Carlton remained by the bedside of the departed one till the attendants came to prepare the body for the grave. He then repaired with apparent calmness to his chamber, and remained there till summoned to attend the funeral. He took his seat in the church with the afflicted parents, and with them followed the coffin to the grave-yard; but no tear fell from his eye, nor, in view of the multitude, at least, did his countenance wear the expression of deep sorrow. Some thought he was wonderfully supported, and others doubted the strength of his affection for the departed one.

When the last sod had been laid upon the grave, he returned home, and seated himself by his father’s side.

“You will hardly be disposed to return to college this term, my son,” said the sympathizing father. “Consult your own inclinations in relation to the matter.”

“I shall return to-morrow,” was the unexpected reply. The father made no objection. He looked upon exertion as the great antidote of sorrow.

Early the next morning Willard arose, and having visited the grave-yard, and laid his head upon the sere turf of the new made grave, he set out on his return to college.

The evening found him at his room, surrounded by his friends, who came to express their sympathy for his bereavement, or their joy at his return. At an early hour he intimated his desire to be left alone. His well-known habit of retiring early, and the painful scene through which he had passed, formed, in the judgment of his friends, an ample apology for any want of courtesy implied in the intimation.

If there were any who thought that his affliction would weaken his devotion to intellectual pursuits, they were disappointed. His friends soon found that their society was not desired by him. Even Temple was constrained to feel that his presence was irksome to his friend. He seemed to desire to spend every moment in study. No light burned later than that which threw its rays upon the page before him. Modes of mental exertion, which he had formerly neglected, now received his earnest attention. In the halls of debate which he had seldom visited, he was now present on every occasion, and the energy with which he grasped every question awakened the highest admiration. In whatever he undertook there was an exhibition of power never before suspected even by his partial friends.

But the tense chord was at length broken. An impassioned burst of eloquence, which, in the judgment of those present, surpassed any thing they had heard from mortal lips, was followed by the ravings of lunacy.

Released from the control of the will, the mind revealed the thought which had wrecked it. The name which had never passed his lips, since she who bore it ceased to be an inhabitant of earth, was now constantly repeated in tones which drew tears from eyes “unused to weep.”

He was removed by his friends to a lunatic asylum. After a long and dangerous illness, his brain began gradually to resume its proper functions. Several relapses, however, were experienced, and it was not till the spring and summer had passed, that his mind was fully restored.

He then returned, feeble and wasted, to his native village. With the consent of his father, he took up his abode with the parents of the lost one, and occupied the chamber in which she breathed her last. He passed the days sitting in her chair, looking out upon the landscape which she had loved to gaze upon, and in reading the New Testament which had lain in her bosom.

For a few days his strength seemed to increase; but there was little to justify the hope of his friends that he would be restored to health.

The aged pastor visited him, and kindly inquired respecting the state of his soul toward God.

“He is too strong for me. I cannot contend with Him,” replied the humbled sufferer.

“It is well for us to be convinced of that truth. It should lead us to acquaint ourselves with Him and be at peace.”

“I am devoting all my time to the attainment of that knowledge and peace.”

“He that seeketh findeth! What a blessed assurance!”

After some further inquiries and appropriate counsels, the pastor withdrew, strongly hoping that that chamber would be the scene of spiritual birth, and as strongly fearing that it was again to bear witness to the power of death.

The apparent improvement in the health of Carlton was of short continuance. Once only was he able to walk to the grave-yard, and rest upon the turf which was now green upon the grave of Eliza.

“Tell my father,” said he, one day to the physician, who had not expressed his opinion upon the case, “that I shall not recover.”

“Have you no desire to live?” said the pastor, who was present.

“I think I can say with her, ‘Thy will be done.’ I see that life is altogether a different thing from what I supposed. If it were God’s will that I should continue here, I could perform as an hireling my day. But he excuses me, and I am content; though I have to regret that I have been of no benefit to my fellow men.”

His departure was much more sudden than was expected. On going to his chamber in the morning, his friends found that his spirit had fled. Her New Testament was between his hands, which were clasped upon his bosom. Apparently he had passed away as gently as did the former owner of that precious volume.

The autumn leaves were falling as the procession wound its way to the church-yard, and laid him to rest by the side of the grass-grown grave made just twelve months before.