Mrs. Grey went home with the sorrowing family, taking Margaret with her, but leaving Gabrielle and the two boys at Greylock. They were too inexperienced to understand that a sublime joy is perfectly consistent with deep grief, and shrank from witnessing pain they believed to be without alleviation. The thought of a funeral was very repugnant to them, as was everything connected with the subject of death. They had yet to learn how Christ has conquered that last enemy, and how the soul may be cast down, yet always rejoicing.

It is hard to lay away in the grave a form we have loved, on a smiling, sunny day, under the green grass; but to put it under the snows of winter is harder still. It needs faith and patience of no common sort to tear the nursling from the breast, and leave it out in the cold. But neither Mrs. Grey's nor Belle's was of the common sort, and in the midst of their tears they could look away from the grave and see the "folded lamb" in green pastures and beside still waters, never so full of life as now.

Loving letters came to Belle from every member of the family, which were a great comfort to her; many precious and comforting books were sent her which she was willing to let do their mission to her soul. But the constant, sympathizing presence of Christ was her chief solace. It has been truly said that the best cure for sorrow is an increased, personal love for Him; Mrs. Grey learned this secret long ago, but Belle first learned it now.

Margaret had not their consolations. Every thought of Mabel lacerated her, and her health began to suffer.

"Poor child, it is her nature to take life hard," said Mrs. Grey to Belle, "and her love for Mabel was a passion."

"Everything is a passion with her," Belle replied. "If you had not adopted her and toned her down, and she had been left uneducated and unrestrained, she would have rushed headlong to destruction."

"I do not feel sure how she will come out in the end," said Mrs. Grey. "If anything happens to me I shall want you to look after her."

"Anything happen to you, mamma?" cried Belle; "do you think anything is going to happen? Why, it isn't living not to have a mother."

"In the nature of things you ought to outlive me, my child. And it is well to familiarize yourself to the thought."

Belle's eyes filled with tears.

"You know what Mabel's death has cost me," she said, "but it is nothing to what yours would."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Grey, trying to smile away this almost reproachful tone, "I do not expect to die at present, and may live to be a trial to you all. I hope not, though. I should like to live as long as I can work for Christ; not longer, nevertheless not my will."

"Nor mine!" said Belle. "I spoke in a cowardly moment, dreading any more suffering. It was most ungrateful after all God's goodness to me."

Margaret now came in with a photograph of Mabel she had been coloring.

"Oh, this is a great improvement!" cried Belle. "Thank you, ever so much."

"What a mercy that you had it taken so recently!" said Mrs. Grey.

"Yes; there has been nothing but goodness and mercy from beginning to end."

Poor Margaret could not see it, and her face showed that she could not.

"Things that look like unmitigated evils now will appear differently as you advance into life. You are only on the outskirts now," said Mrs. Grey, kindly. "Belle, my dear, let Margaret read your Mabel-journal."

Belle rose and brought the book. It had been kept from the day of the child's birth till that of her death.

Margaret took it to her room and read it eagerly, and amid a rain of tears. Even she had not realized what a lovely character the little one possessed, and every little detail interested her.

"This book ought to be published!" she said, as she returned it.

"It would not touch the public as it does you," replied Belle.

"It would touch anybody who had a heart," said Mrs. Grey.

Belle caught it nervously, and locked it up. Mrs. Grey smiled, and said she never meant to urge its publication.

At the end of a fortnight she and Margaret returned to Greylock, sent the boys back to Mr. Heath, and everything went on as usual till spring; Mrs. Grey going hither and thither on all sorts of Christian work; Margaret eagerly engaged in painting a portrait of Mabel, partly from a photograph, partly from memory, and busy with her studies also. And now a long-promised visit to Laura was to be made as soon as Gabrielle's vacation should begin, when she was to go home for a visit.

Laura lived on the beautiful banks of the Hudson, and so near to the city that her husband could attend to his business there, and go home every afternoon. Since Mrs. Grey had been there, they had built a new house, and Laura was full of delight in the prospect of exhibiting it to her mother and Margaret. She charged the latter to bring her painting-materials, so as to make sketches of some of the fine views in the neighborhood.

"I don't know about that," said Margaret. "I doubt if I ought to do anything of that sort till Mabel's portrait is done. That will be such a delightful surprise to Belle."

"On the other hand, it would be running some risk to take it with you," Mrs. Grey replied.

"Do you mean from the children?"

"Not exactly. I don't know what I do mean. I only know that I have an impression that it is best to leave it at home. You have put a great deal of work in it, and it would take months to replace it."

"I don't think I could forgive Pug and Trot if they bedaubed this as they did the only other large picture I ever took. I'll leave it."

On a beautiful afternoon in. June they met Harry on the steamboat, on their way to his home. He was in splendid health and spirits, and seemed delighted at the prospect of their visit. They sat upon deck, read a little, looked at the blue sky and green banks, and talked when they felt like it.

"We shall soon be there," Harry said, at last. "You'll get a glimpse of the house as we skirt this island. Hollo! what's that?" he cried, starting to his feet and running forward.

"It's fire!" said Margaret, putting out her hand for Mrs. Grey's.

"We are near the shore; there is no danger," said Mrs. Grey.

"Why doesn't Harry come back?" asked Margaret. "He ought not to expose himself for Laura's sake. Oh, aunty, see how the flames are rushing between us and him!"

There was great rushing to and fro, the flames spread rapidly; orders were given in a loud voice, above which could be heard the cries of the terrified passengers.

An attempt was made to make for the shore, but the steamer ran aground. Harry made his way through the flames and came to them now, hardly looking like a human being. His hair was singed, his face black and grimy, and at first they did not recognize him or his voice, as he said, hoarsely:

"There isn't a moment to lose! Jump overboard, both of you! I'm a good swimmer; I can save you!"

"I have a son on board!" replied Mrs. Grey. "I cannot seek my own safety till I am sure of his! But if you will kindly take charge of this young lady—"

"Don't you know me, mother?" cried Harry, impatiently. "I tell you there's not a moment to lose!"

The two women kissed each other.

"Good-bye, darling, darling aunty, if he doesn't save us!"

"Good-bye, my precious child! Good-bye, Harry! Tell Laura—"

He almost pushed them into the water, jumped in himself, bade them hold him fast, and began to strike out for the shore. The distance was greater than he supposed, and his strength began to fail; what should he do? which life should he sacrifice? Margaret's, of course, not that of Laura's mother. But Margaret was so young, it was dreadful to die young; and Mrs. Grey at best could not live many years. The conflict was painful, and so was every stroke of his arms. Neither should die, if it killed him! One more heroic stroke and we are there! No, a wave has beaten us back!

With a groan of anguish he cried, "I cannot save you both! One of you must loose your hold! Which shall it be?"

"Not aunty!" said Margaret, instantly loosing her grasp.

"Not Margaret!" said Mrs. Grey, as instantly relinquishing hers.

Harry uttered a cry of horror, and watched to see them rise; but his over-taxed frame had made its last frantic effort; he felt himself going down, down; there was a faint thought of Laura, waiting for him in her white dress, a faint sense of God waiting for him too, and then he knew no more, till he awoke, and found it was all a dream; Laura was there, very pale, but smiling; the doctor was there, and many others.

"He's all right now," said the doctor, "and as soon as I've set this arm you may take him home."

For reply, Laura, waking also as from a dream, cried, "Where is mamma? Where is Margaret?"

"I did my best," Harry said, faintly. "This arm was broken before we took to the water."

"You don't mean to tell me that you let my mother drown?" Laura hissed in his ear.

"Indeed, madam, my patient is in no state to be excited," said the doctor. "Rejoice that Providence has given you back your husband, and only taken your mother."

"Only taken!" repeated Laura, almost beside herself. "Only taken my mother! Why, she was one of ten thousand! She was every body's mother! And Margaret! That noble girl! And I am to rejoice, am I!"

"There will be little to rejoice over if you go on in this way, madam," said the doctor, pointing to Harry, who had again become insensible.

This silenced her, and she spoke no more, but almost the coldness of death steeled her heart to her husband. She did not realize the self-possession he had displayed, the difficulties in his way; she did not know that if the women she lamented had been less heroic one of them might have been saved; all she knew was, they lay dead in the embrace of the river she had once thought beautiful.

"What news for poor Belle! What a shock to Frank! What consternation among mother's friends!" she thought, and tried to cry, but not a tear would come.

Slowly, when Harry came to himself, and his arm had been set, they drove home. There was the table, set for tea; there was mother's chair; there was the plate of strawberries, and the vase of flowers she had gathered with such delight. She went to the window and threw them out; who cared for fruit and flowers now?

Meanwhile, Harry had been taken up-stairs, and laid upon a couch, falling asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. She went and looked at him, and saw how the fire had singed his hair, how death-like he looked; how blistered were his hands. "But he let my mother drown," she thought.

All night she sat by him, and when he woke and needed attention, she gave it; but that was all. She gave no kiss, no caress, no loving word, but steeled herself with the thought, "He let my mother drown."

Harry was so exhausted that he did not notice this at first; when he did, he was disappointed and grieved, but not surprised. His conscience was clear, and he knew that as soon as he had strength to tell his story, Laura would see her injustice. Then he fell asleep again, and again woke and saw her sitting there, pale, and silent, and stony. He thought she had sat there a week; wondered if she would speak to him again; if she ever ate, or drank, or moved; and then, feeble as a child, he slept again.