that early hour, and the once fine voice of Florence now rising in weak and ineffective strains, as she accompanied herself in her morning hymn to the Blessed Virgin. As soon as the little girl had finished dressing herself, and recited her morning prayers, she hastened to the parlour, and as she descended the stairs, she caught the first notes of a melancholy air which was a great favourite with Florence. With a buoyant step Agatha bounded into the room, and seizing one hand of Florence within her own, and which held a Mater Dolorosa which Edith had just painted, exclaimed, "Is not this very beautiful, Florence? See how naturally Edith has done that tear on our Blessed Lady's face." Florence, however, returned no answer to the little girl's speech, but continued to lean supporting her head on her hand against the harp. Agatha, however, was not to be so repulsed, and twining her arms around her neck, exclaimed, "Come, Florence dear, mama will scold you for rising so early, you look faint, and your hands feel chill, do come to the sofa, dear," she added, affectionately kissing her, and striving at the same time to raise her sister, whose head, losing its support by the movement Agatha had made, sunk heavily on her shoulder. The poor little girl shrunk back aghast, and uttered a scream of horror as she looked on the countenance of Florence, whose pure spirit had no doubt parted from its mortal tabernacle without a single groan or struggle, even as she had entered the apartment, for within an instant of that time Agatha had heard her touch the strings of her harp. Unaccustomed as the child was to the appearance of death, she knew her darling Florence was no more, the parted lips and half closed eyes, and the marble whiteness of the countenance on which she gazed, told her truly that she was dead, and her repeated shrieks at length brought Edith and her mother to the room, where Agatha still stood supporting the head of the corpse. The poor child was now in violent hysterics, and after having, with the help of Edith, placed the remains of Florence on the couch, Mrs. Mortimer called the servant, who hastily throwing on her clothes, run for medical assistance. We have, however, said that life was already extinct. Mrs. Mortimer having passed a bad night with Florence, who in the earlier part of it had been very restless, had sunk towards morning into a heavy slumber, during which it was conjectured, that the poor invalid, unable to sleep, had risen quietly from her mother's side, and throwing a white wrapper around her, had descended to the parlour to play on her harp. The death of Florence, though long anticipated, when it at last occurred with so much suddenness, cast a gloom for the remainder of her life over Mrs. Mortimer's spirits. With a little of the bitter feeling of earlier times Edith spoke of those whose envy had so far succeeded as to oblige Florence to toil as she had done even after she was attacked by the fatal malady which occasioned her death, but Mrs. Mortimer found a consolation in the remembrance that it was foolish to embitter their existence with the idea that their poverty alone had been the cause of her early death, when they knew that annually many of those who are lapped in luxury sink victims to the fell disease of which she had died, and leave England for a more genial clime, in the vain hope of regaining their health, only to lay their remains far from their native land. Edith Mortimer remained the support and stay of her family, showing forth in her affec tionate conduct the virtue of love to her relations, and also to the little world in which she moved, by forgiving the injuries, wrought her in early life, and by benefitting those who had done her any wrong if they were in need of her assistance, thus "heaped coals of fire on the heads of her enemies." In the course of a few years, Agatha was put forwards in her sister's profession, and Edith also provided honourably for Lewis, by purchasing him a commission in the army, and the elder brother, who had been apprenticed by Mr. Mortimer to the medical profession, distinguished himself therein, and the fruits of Edith's industry, combined with her love for her family, formed their happiness. She had learned to practise the precept of our Lord, which we have taken for the motto of our tale. "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that persecute and calumniate you, that you may be the children of your Father who is in heaven." She had conquered that evil inclination which had urged her to gratify her own revenge, and even in this mortal state, she met with her |