features, pale and sculptured, were like the marble to which Chantry imparts an existence, at once so tender, and yet so sad. The wretched father signed to the attendants to leave the room: all obeyed but one, and she was stupified with this last excess of sorrow. Mr. Dalton left the room unconscious of her presence.
A week, a dreary week, had elapsed—and it was the morning of the funeral. In the very room where the young and unfortunate mother had rested in her shroud ere she was restored to Earth—were two small coffins—the lids were closed—human eye had looked its last on the mournful remains below. Yet one stood gazing upon them as if unable to tear herself away: it was the Indian nurse, in whose face that week had written death. She stood there pale, ghastly, more like a spectre than a human being, yet bound to that spot by the strong ties of earthly affection. Slowly the door opened, and Mr. Dalton entered: he started on seeing Eda, who at once came forward; and, grasping his arm with a force of which her
