“You are right, St. Eval, they are the dearest ties on earth; but pleasures, the pleasures of affection, too, are yet left to us, who may never know them.  Think you not, that to feel it is my place to cheer and soothe the declining years of those dear and tender guardians of my infancy must bring with it enjoyment—­to see myself welcomed by smiles of love and words of kindness by all my brothers and sisters—­to see their children flock around me as I enter, each seeking to be the first to obtain my smile or kiss—­to know myself of service to my fellow-creatures, I mean not in my own rank, but those beneath me—­to feel conscious that in every event of life, particularly in sickness or in sorrow, if those I so love require my presence, or I feel I may give them comfort or sympathy, at least I may fly to them, for I shall have no tie, no dearer or more imperious duty to keep me from them—­are not these considerations enough to render a single life indeed one of happiness, St. Eval?  Even from this calm, unruffled stream of life can I not gather flowers?”

“You would gather them wherever you were placed, my dear and noble-minded Ellen,” said the Earl, with a warmth that caused her eye to glisten.  “You are right:  with a disposition such as yours, I have no need to regret you have so steadfastly refused every offer of marriage.  My girls shall come to you in that age when they think matrimony is the only chance of happiness, and you shall teach them felicity dwells not so much in outward circumstances as in the temper of the mind.  Perhaps, after all, Ellen, you are happier as it is.  You might not find such a husband as I would wish you, and I should be sorry to see your maternal cares rewarded as were poor Mrs. Greville’s.”

“I rather think, in the blessedness of the present the past is entirely forgotten,” observed Ellen, thoughtfully.  “There are cares and sorrows attendant on the happiest lot; but if a mother does her duty, in my opinion she seldom fails to obtain her recompense, however long deferred.”

“You are right, my Ellen,” said Mrs. Hamilton, who had been listening to the conversation some little time unobserved.  “There are many sorrows and many cares inseparable from maternal love, but they are forgotten, or only remembered to enhance the sweetness of the recompense that ever follows.  Do you not think, to see my children, as I do now around me, walking in that path which alone can lead to eternal life, and leading their offspring with them, bringing up so tenderly, so fondly their children as heirs of immortality, and yet lavishing on me, as on their father, the love and duty of former years—­is not this a precious recompense for all which for them I may have done or borne?  Even as I watched the departing moments of my Herbert, as I marked the triumphant and joyful flight of his pure spirit to his heavenly home,—­even then was I not rewarded?  I saw the fruit of those lessons I had been permitted through grace to inculcate; his last breath blessed me, and was not that enough?  Oh, my beloved children, let no difficulties deter you, no temptation, no selfish suffering prevent your training up the lovely infants now gambolling around you, in the way that they should go;—­solemn is the charge, awful the responsibility, but sweeter far than words can give it, the reward which either in life or death will then be yours.”