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ETHEL CHURCHILL.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
RETURN HOME.
'Tis not my home—he made it home
With earnest love and care;
How can it be my own dear home,
And he no longer there?
I ask'd to meet my father's eyes,
But they were closed to me;
My father, would that I were laid
In the dark grave with thee.
Where should I look for constant love,
To answer unto mine?
Others had many kindred hearts,
But I had only thine.
The shades of the evening closed round just as Henrietta gave one sad start, and turned her face from the carriage-window, as she first recognised a familiar object: it was a clump of firs that grew on a hill, and were a land-
