Softly and beautifully fell the light of a setting sun around the pretty little cottage, on the banks of the Dart, which was now the residence of Mrs. Greville; the lattice was thrown widely back, and the perfume of unnumbered flowers scented the apartment, which Ellen’s hand had loved to decorate, that Mrs. Greville might often, very often forget she was indeed alone.  It was the early part of September, and a delicious breeze passed by, bearing health and elasticity upon its wing, and breathing soft melody amid the trees and shrubs.  Softly and calmly glided the smooth waters at the base of the garden.  The green verandah running round the cottage was filled with beautiful exotics, which Ellen’s hand had transported from the conservatory at Oakwood.  It was a sweet and soothing sight to see how judiciously, how unassumingly Ellen devoted herself to the desolate mother, without once permitting that work of love to interfere with her still nearer, still dearer ties at home.  She knew how Herbert would have loved and devoted himself to the mother of his Mary, and in this, as in all things, she followed in his steps.  Untiringly would she listen to and speak on Mrs. Greville’s favourite theme, her Mary; and now she sat beside her, enlivening by gentle converse the hours that must intervene ere Alfred came.  There was an expression of such calm, such chastened thanksgiving on Mrs. Greville’s features, changed as they were by years of sorrow, that none could gaze on her without a kindred feeling stealing over the heart, and in very truth those feelings seemed reflected on the young and lovely countenance beside her.  A pensive yet a sweet and pleasing smile rested on Ellen’s lips, and her dark eye shone softly bright in the light of sympathy.  Beautiful indeed were the orphan’s features, but not the dazzling beauty of early youth.  If a stranger had gazed on her countenance when in calm repose, he would have thought she had seen sorrow; but when that beaming smile of true benevolence, that eye of intellectual and soul-speaking beauty met his glance, as certain would he have felt that sorrow, whatever it might have been, indeed had lost its sting.

“It was such an evening, such an hour my Mary died,” Mrs. Greville said, as she laid her hand in Ellen’s.  “I thought not then to have reflected on it with feelings such as now fill my heart.  Oh, when I look back on past years, and recall the prayers I have uttered in tears for my son, my Alfred, the doubts, the fears that have arisen to check my prayer, I wonder wherefore am I thus blessed.”

“Our God is a God of truth, and He promiseth to answer prayer, dearest Mrs. Greville,” replied Ellen, earnestly; “and He is a God of love, and will bless those who seek Him and trust in Him as you have done.”

“He gave me grace to trust in Him, my child.  I trusted, I doubted not He would answer me in another world, but I thought not such blessing was reserved for me in this.  A God of love—­ay, in my hour of affliction.  I have felt Him so.  Oh, may the blessings of His loving-kindness shower down upon me, soften yet more my heart to receive His glorious image.”