It was springtime again, and the snowdrops were nodding their dainty, little white heads, and the linnets were again building their nests in the sweet old garden, when Anna's mother summoned her from Cecil's side in Lady Dorothy's walk, to the oak-paneled drawing-room.

"My daughter," she began, "I regret that I must interrupt your present happiness, but circumstances compel me to separate you and Cecil for the present. It is time that you were presented at court, and it is time that you passed a season in London. We have hitherto lead so secluded a life that your name is not known beyond the limits of our county, and I feel I am not doing my duty by you."

"But we are all very happy, mother," said Anna. "Why need we be more known?"

"Yes, my daughter, we are happy now but changes must come to all sometime. I may be called away from you."

"O my dearest mother do not say that, I cannot, I dare not think of what life would be without you; you know I will do anything you wish, or give up everything else in life, but I cannot give you up; it would break my heart, I should die," cried Anna.

"Broken hearts don't die, my daughter, would to God that they did; few, very few die of broken hearts, but many live with them. I have carefully considered what is my duty toward you, and my reason and affection coincide; now listen, in case I am called away by death, there is Cecil to whose care and protection I could resign you, for I knew you loved each other long before you knew it yourselves; I am happy that it is so, but if Cecil were taken away also, there would be no very near relatives to care for you, for the nearest members of your father's family are in India, and mine in the colony of Virginia, and as you will inherit the landed estates of your late grandfather as well as mine, it would be better that you should make trustworthy friends before I leave you, I see this pains you, dear daughter, I shall say no more on this subject. In three days we shall set out for London as the season has already begun, and we shall require some time to get our court dresses made."

The last evening at the manor house was passed by Anna and Cecil under the light of the stars, in Lady Dorothy's walk. The next morning saw the large, old yellow family coach at the door, drawn by four strong, heavy horses, a coachman and groom on the box, a maid and a butler in the rumble, and the widow and her daughter inside. Cecil who was standing by one of the coach windows looking very pale and thoughtful, tried to put on a smile as he said,

"We are to look for you both back again in the early autumn, you said, aunt."

"Yes, Cecil, as soon as the first brown leaves fall."

The young people looked good by to each other, but said not a word, and the heavy old coach moved away. In three days more the travelers were in London, and in due course Anna was presented at court by her mother, who had herself been presented on the occasion of her marriage. Then came calls and cards and invitations to balls and routs and state dinners, and the poor tired mother went through all these ceremonies as a duty toward her daughter, and the daughter endured it because she loved her mother, and desired to obey her wish. It was necessary that a young heiress of her rank should be dressed in accordance with the fashion of the day, but the young heiress longed to be released from the thraldom of fashion, the fatiguing, heavy brocade dresses, the hoops, the stiff ruff and the stomacher, the farthingale and high heeled shoes, and a thousand times more than all, did she desire to be released from the artificial and to her unsatisfactory life, from the flattery, the coquetry, the idle, envious tattle, and to be back again with Cecil, in her simple, healthy attire, and to live among honest hearts.

The autumn came, and the dry brown leaves began to fall from the trees. Day after day, Cecil opened the harpsichord, and laid a bouquet of the rich deep-hued flowers of the season upon it, and then he took his place by the fountain, and watched the winding road through the park, so that he might get the first sight of the coach when it returned. The autumn leaves continued to fall, and Cecil kept his daily vigil until they were lying deep on the ground, and the branches overhead were bare. Then came a letter saying that Cecil's aunt was ordered by her doctor to pass the winter in Italy, in the hope of curing a cough, which had of late settled upon her, so that it would be spring before the ladies could return to the manor house, hence they traveled to Italy and spent the winter among its masterpieces of genius, both in music and art. The soft air seemed all that was wanted to restore Anna's mother to health. Every day, they found something beautiful that they desired Cecil to see, but it was too late now to send for him, for spring was near. With the spring, came back the cough, and again the medical order was change of climate. This time, a sojourn of some months in Norway was prescribed for Mrs. Vyvyan, bracing air, and much out-door life in the pine woods. After many weeks of slow journeying, the ladies with two of their servants reached Norway, and took up their abode in an old chateau, in the midst of a pine forest so-called, but a forest really composed of many varieties of fir and spruce, as well as pine. The combined aroma of these woods made the air fragrant for many acres around the chateau, and for a time, it appeared to have the most beneficial effect upon the invalid. But one quiet eve, when the summer days had waned, and the faded leaves of another autumn fell, a pang of anguish shot through Anna's heart. The dearly loved mother was called away.

A short time only had elapsed since that event, and the servants were packing, and making preparations for the return to the manor house, when a mounted courier arrived at the chateau, with a large package of papers addressed in Dr. Strickland's handwriting. Very long, and full of feeling, and minute in every detail, was the letter the good man had written, if letter so long a dispatch might be called. He told of Cecil's conversations, of his watchings from beside the fountain; how every day he picked flowers, and put them on the harpsichord, saying this is the place she loves best; and how he faded and wasted day by day, yet struggled so bravely against the hand of death, that he might finish his last and best picture for Anna; and how on the last day of his life, he had laid his flowers on the harpsichord as usual, and then desired to be carried to the library and lifted into their great-grandfather's chair to die,—the chair that Anna had placed for him the first time they met.

When Anna had finished reading the final words of Dr. Strickland's letter, she rose and moved quietly into the recess of one of the large, heavily mullioned windows, and looked down a long vista into the forest, to the tall dark pines under which was her mother's grave. Every vestige of color had left both cheek and lip, and she stood in the great somber room, as cold and white and as still as the statues which adorned its walls. The extremes of grief and joy have no speech; she had none. No cry of lamentation went forth; no tears of relief fell from her eyes; she knew her life was ended, but she also knew that she could not die. Three words only escaped her lips. "O God, alone."