devoted affection which the orphans bore to each other.  He gazed on her in deep commiseration, as in unbroken silence she listened to the tenderly-told tale; and, drawing her once more to his bosom as Mr. Howard ceased, he fondly and repeatedly kissed her brow, as he entreated her not to despair; Edward might yet be saved.  No word came from Ellen’s parched lips, but he felt the cold shudder of suffering pass through her frame.  Several minutes passed, and still she raised not her head.  Impressively the venerable clergyman addressed her in tones and words that never failed to find their way to the orphan’s heart.  He spoke of a love and mercy that sent these continued trials to mark her as more peculiarly His own.  He told of comfort, that even in such a moment she could feel.  He bade her cease not to pray for her brother’s safety; that nothing was too great for the power or the mercy of the Lord; that however it might appear impossible to worldly minds that he could be saved, yet if the Almighty’s hand had been stretched forth, a hundred storms might have passed him by unhurt; yet he bade her not entertain too sanguine hopes.  “Place our beloved Edward and yourself in the hands of our Father in heaven, my child; implore Him for strength to meet His will, whatever it may be, and if, indeed, He hath taken him in mercy to a happier world, He will give you strength and grace to meet His ordinance of love; but if hope still lingers, check it not—­he may be spared.  Be comforted, then, my child, and for the sake of the beloved relative yet spared you, try and compose your agitated spirits.  We may trust to your care in retaining this fresh grief from her, I know we may.”

“You are right.  Mr. Howard; oh, may God bless you for your kindness!” said the almost heart-broken girl, as she raised her head and placed her trembling hands in his.  Her cheeks were colourless as marble, but the long dark fringes that rested on them were unwetted by tears; she had forcibly sent them back.  Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, but she would not listen to its anguish.  The form of Herbert seemed to flit before her and remind her of her promise, that her every care, her every energy should be devoted to his mother; and that remembrance, strengthened as it was by Mr. Howard’s words, nerved her to the painful duty which was now hers to perform.  “You may indeed trust me.  My Father in heaven will support me, and give me strength to conceal this intelligence effectually, till my beloved aunt is enabled to hear it with composure.  Do not fear me, Mr. Maitland; it is not in my own strength I trust, for that I feel too painfully at this moment is less than nothing.  My dearest uncle, will you not trust your Ellen?”

She turned towards him as she spoke, and Mr. Hamilton felt the tears glisten in his eyes as he met the upturned glance of the afflicted orphan—­now indeed, as it seemed, so utterly alone.

“Yes I do and ever will trust you, my beloved Ellen,” he said, with emotion.  “May God grant you His blessing in this most painful duty.  To Him I commend you, my child; I would speak of comfort and hope, but He alone can give them.”