The way seemed long to Rodolph.  He desired to reach his cherished home; and yet he dreaded to return and sadden the heart of his little Edith with the story of Fingal’s death, and the sight of the inanimate form of her last and much-loved playfellow.  Had it not been for this catastrophe, he would have kept from his wife and child the knowledge of the cruel attempt that had been made on his life as such knowledge could only distress them, and cause them needless anxiety and alarm in future.  But the death of Fingal must be accounted for; and, let the consequence be what it might, it must be accounted for truly, and without prevarication.  Therefore it was that Rodolph dreaded meeting those whose presence was the joy and the sunlight of his life.

He reached his home, and silently entered his blooming garden; and, with Squanto’s assistance, laid the body of Fingal, now cold and stiff, beneath the venerable tree that shaded Edith’s bower.  Then he entered his dwelling, and found its inmates busily employed at their usual domestic occupations, and overjoyed at his sudden and unexpected arrival.  But, in spite of his own pleasure, a shade of sadness and anxiety was on his brow, which he could not hide from the quick eye of Helen; and she eagerly inquired the cause.

Sadly Rodolph told his story; and joy and deep gratitude for the preservation of her beloved husband so filled and engrossed the heart of Helen, as, for a time, to overpower every feeling of regret for the loss of the faithful animal, who seemed to have been providentially directed to accompany his master, and save his life at the sacrifice of his own.

But Edith keenly felt the loss she had sustained.  She was thankful—­ very thankful—­that her father had been restored to their home in safety; but she did not the less deplore the death of her dear companion:  and, unable to restrain her tears, she hurried from the house, and ran to hide her grief in her lonely bower.  For some time her parents did not perceive her absence, for they were occupied with their own feelings of pious gratitude; but presently Rodolph remarked that she had left the room, and remembered where he had deposited the body of her favorite.  He rose, and went towards the spot, accompanied by Helen; and tears of sorrowful sympathy arose in the eyes of both, as they beheld the desolate child lying on the ground by Fingal’s side, with her arms around his neck, and her long waving hair hanging over his inanimate face, that had never before met her gaze without an answering look of intelligence and affection.

Gently they raised her, and spoke to her words of love and comfort; but she long refused to be comforted.  And though, at length, she became calm and resigned, and never was heard to utter one murmur at this fresh stroke of sorrow, yet her pensive sadness became more confirmed, and plainly showed that she mourned for Fingal, not only as her lost companion, but also as a connecting link between her own heart and the memory of her lamented brother.  Poor Edith! her early life was one of trial and disappointment; but ‘it was good for her to be afflicted.’