It was one of those brilliant and transparent days of June, never surpassed in any climate. The little church stood clearly defined against the deep blue sky. The ocean, as the sun shone on it, was gemmed with a thousand glancing diamonds, and here and there a light sail rose and fell upon it, like the wings of a bird. It was so still that the hum of the noontide insects was distinctly heard. At intervals, the slow tolling of the little bell sent its echoes back from the surrounding forest.

It was the day of the funeral of the beloved pastor, and small groups of the parishioners began to collect about the church and the house. Heartfelt grief seemed to shadow every countenance, but the severe and reserved character of the New England Puritans allowed them to make no demonstration of sorrow: they shut up within themselves every trace of emotion, and spoke only in whispers, with a stern, determined air.

The garb and appearance of the people was rough and homely. There were farmers with their wives, on pillions; fishermen with their rough sea-coats; aged women, bent and wrinkled, who had come to lay in the grave one whom they had hoped would have prayed at and blessed their own burial.

The house at length was filled with those who had the nearest claim, and the ministers of the surrounding villages darkened, with their black dress, the little apartment.

The two slaves stood near the bier, and the excitable temperament and violent grief of the poor Africans contrasted with the stern, and solemn, and composed countenances around them.

Edith at last came in. She was calm, but very pale; and, as she entered the room, she gave her hand to those who stood nearest. She tried to speak, but the words died on her lips. Dinah was in a moment at her side. Her delicate and youthful beauty contrasted by her sable friend, and her lonely, unprotected state touched the hearts of these stern, but also tenderly affectionate Puritans, and there were tears in many eyes, as they looked at her with respect and interest.

The windows were all open; the concert of joyous birds, in their season of love and happiness, showed no sympathy with man in his grief. It was so still that the silvery sound of the waves, as they touched the beach, was distinctly heard; and the voice of prayer, as it broke the silence, was the only human sound.

The voice of prayer ceased, and the quick hoof of a horse was heard. In a few moments Seymore entered. He had heard of the death of his friend, and, impelled by an irresistible impulse, he could not remain at his studies. As he entered he was violently agitated, for death and sorrow were new to him.

The color rushed to Edith's pale cheek, as she silently gave him her hand; but she felt a calmness which she could not herself understand. A change had been wrought in her character by that nightly death-bed, and by four days of lonely sorrow. She felt that she must rely on herself.

The changes that are wrought by sorrow and reflection in a timid woman are not less apparent than those wrought by love. They seem, at first, to take from the exquisite feminineness of the character, but they bring out the latent beauty and strength of her spiritual nature. It is said "that every wave of the ocean adds to the beauty of the pearl, by removing the scum that reveals its interior and mysterious light." It is thus with time and sorrow: they reveal to ones self the inward pearl beyond all price, on which we must forever rely to guide us.

The oldest of the parishioners now approached, to bear their beloved pastor on their shoulders to the silent grave-yard. The ceremonial of a country burial is extremely simple, but they had then an affecting custom which has since been discontinued. As they bore the body to the grave, they sang an anthem, and, as it entered the little enclosure, the groups on each side receded, and uncovered their heads. The boys were hushed to awe, as the anthem rose on the evening air; the sun sank behind the forest, and its last rays were reflected from the grave of this servant of God.

The exquisite beauty of the scene oppressed and wearied Edith as she returned to her solitary home. She felt that though nature may sympathize with our joy, there is nothing in her bosom that responds to our sorrow.

But she did not return alone: Seymore had followed her; and, as they entered the deserted room, her father's arm-chair was in its accustomed place: even his slippers had been accidentally placed ready for him. The curtain had been removed from her mother's picture, and as she approached it, she met its pitying eyes fixed upon her. The unnatural tension of the nerves, which had denied her, for the last four days, the relief of tears, gave way, and the very fountains of her soul seemed opened. She sank down on a chair, and yielded to the overwhelming emotion.

There are states of the mind when the note of a bird, the fall of a leaf, the perfume of a flower, will unlock the bars of the soul, as the smallest sound will loosen the avalanche. The unexpected sight of her mother's picture had overpowered Edith. O that we should receive a mother's love in infancy, when we cannot value or understand it; and, in after life, when we need it most, when we long for the heart that has cherished us, "we must go back to some almost forgotten grave," where that warm heart lies that loved us as no other will ever love us.

Seymore was terrified: he had never seen grief like this, and he walked the room with rapid and agitated steps.

Edith longed to be alone. She tried to conquer her emotion, but the sobs that came from the bottom of her heart shook her whole frame. At last she said, "Pray leave me; I wish to be, I must be alone."

Seymore could not leave her thus. He took her passive hand. "O," said he, "would that I could spare you one of these tears! If you could know how I reverence your sorrow, how my heart bleeds for you—O pardon me—if you could see my heart, you would see there a devotion, a reverence, such as angels feel in heaven. Might I dare to hope that you would forgive, that you would pardon the poor, unknown, homeless scholar, that he has dared to love you?"

Edith had become calm as he spoke thus impetuously, and her hand grew cold in his. She looked up: a beautiful and timid hope shone in her eyes; and, though her tears fell fast, a smile was on her lips. "We are both homeless," she said,—"both orphans."

He caught from her expression a rapturous hope. At this moment the faithful slave Dinah opened the door to look after her young mistress. It was the first time since her childhood, that the face of her sable friend had been unwelcome to Edith; but perhaps it was happy for both; it arrested their tumultuous emotions, and gave Seymore, who left the room immediately, time to arrange his thoughts, and reflect on the blissful prospect opening before him.

Edith held out her hand to her friend. I have before remarked the figurative expressions in which Dinah clothed her thoughts. Her language and her feelings were fervid, like her climate.

"I thought," she said, "the heartsease had withered in your bosom; but it has sprung up, and is blooming again." Then seeing the crimson overspread Edith's cheek, she added, "perhaps your warm tears have revived it." But, as if ashamed of having said something not perfectly true, she took Edith's hand, looked earnestly in her face, as if asking an explanation of this sudden change.

Edith was wholly overcome. She threw herself into the arms of the faithful slave, and longed to hide herself there. None but a mother could understand her feelings, or one who had been to her in the place of a mother, and knew every beating of her innocent heart.

There are moments when woman needs the sympathy of a mother, that first and dearest friend of every human being. Dinah could not understand the imaginative character of Edith's mind; she could not sympathize with her thirst for knowledge, her love of the beautiful and the unknown; but the tear in her eye, and her quivering lip, as she pressed her child closer and closer to her, as though she would cherish her in her inmost heart, showed that she understood her nature, and sympathized in her happiness with all a woman's heart.

That night, when Edith laid her head on her pillow, she felt a secret joy, a lightness of heart, which she could not understand. She reproached herself that she could feel so happy so soon after the death of her father. She did not know how insensibly she had suffered an interest in Seymore to grow in her heart, and that the sentiments of nature are weak when brought into contact with an absorbing passion. When she came to offer her prayer for guidance and protection, a feeling of gratitude, of thankfulness, overpowered all other emotions, and she closed her eyes, wet with grateful tears.