down and kissed the marble forehead. Was it fancy? Who can tell? How dare any of us pry too closely into the source of those ineffable consolations which are breathed into the ears of mourners who would otherwise be drowned in an ocean of despairing bitterness? Once abandon belief in a risen Christ in Whom all are made alive, and I know not how to explain the strange phenomenon of recovery from the crushing sorrow of bereavement. Where else can we gain the strength which enables us to begin afresh when all our world lies buried in a single grave? If not supported by faith, it seems that to live on, one must not love too dearly. It was sweet to know that Will, although invisible to the straining gaze of human affection, was alive somewhere in God's universe, and that when the angel of death should come to summon those who now wept beside his grave, they would find him waiting to receive them and to welcome them home to the land where all tears shall be wiped away. CHAPTER XXI. MRS. PEMBERTON RECEIVES A VISIT. MRS. PEMBERTON was alone in the drawingroom. Both her daughters were out; Marion had gone to pay a round of visits, and May was taking a riding lesson. Few people would have objected to spend a solitary hour in that luxurious apartment. Pictures lined the walls. Statuettes, rare bits of china, foreign curiosities, stood on brackets or were seen through the glass doors of the beautiful inlaid cabinets. The very paper-knife Mrs. Pemberton held in her hand was was exquisitely carved. A faint subtle perfume filled the air. On a table close stood a glass full to the invalid lady's couch of rare hot-house flowers. The newest magazine, and the latest novel from Mudie's, lay |