marked mentally, just that way. I suppose such a thing is possible; and I can no more help my feelings than the girl could help having the mark on her brow."

Dolores had struck a deeper truth than she imagined. But Helena's mind was not able to grasp it. She only felt that her friend was more and more of an enigma, and crept into bed with her brain in a state of chaotic confusion, bordering upon fear.

CHAPTER IV.

A STARTLING VALEDICTORY.

HILE the household slumbered a pale messenger entered silently and said to one of its members, "This night thy soul is required of thee! Come with me."

Mr. Laurence was found dead in his bed in the morning, a smile, warmer than his living features had worn for years, frozen upon his lips.

For those who have witnessed the ghastly spectacle of a modern funeral, no description of that barbarous rite is necessary. Who has not seen it all—the darkened room, stifling with its mingled odors of flowers and disinfectants; the sombre, hideous casket; the awful ceremony of screwing down the lid over the beloved face: the black army of pall-bearers: the long, slow, mournful journey to the desolate, disease-breeding cemetery; the damp, dark, yawning pit, the lowered coffin, the sickening thud of the earth as dust returns to dust. Oh! could the most savage race invest death with more terrors than this frightful custom of the civilized world? Then follows the long process of decay, the darkness, the gloom, the weight of the earth upon that dear breast, the grave-worm slowly eating his slimy way into the flesh which has thrilled under our warm kisses—God! are we not cruel to our dead?

Compare with this the beautiful ceremony of cremation. A snowy cloth envelopes the dead. A door swings open noiselessly, and the iron cradle, with its burden clothed as for the nuptial bed, rolls through the aperture and disappears in a glory of crimson light, as a dove sails into the summer sunset skies and is lost to view. There is no smoke, no flame, no odor of any kind. Nothing comes in contact with the precious form we have loved, but the purity of intense heat, and the splendor of great light. In a few hours, swiftly, noiselessly, with no repulsive or ghastly features in the process, the earthly part of our dear one is reduced to a small heap of snowy ashes. All hail the dawn of a newer and higher civilization, which shall substitute the cleanliness and simplicity of cremation for the complicated and dreadful horrors of burial!

By Mr. Laurence's will it was discovered that his entire property, amounting to a comfortable competence, belonged to Dolores, with the exception of the homestead: This was to pass into the hands of Dr. Monroe, his family physician and only intimate acquaintance. Friends offered the shelter of their homes to Dolores, and urged her to accept their sympathetic hospitality until her future plans were formed. But the sorrowing orphan refused to leave the thrice gloomy house. She clung to Helena, and said, between her sobs, "They tell me I must go away from here soon, forever: that it is no longer my home. Surely, I may remain a little while—a few weeks, and surely you will stay with me, Helena? I cannot leave it all so suddenly—it is too much to ask of me."

Finally it was decided that Dr. and Mrs. Monroe should take immediate charge of their new home, and that Helena should remain with her friend until her preparations were completed for a final departure.

Then together they would return to Madame Scranton's to remain until the June vacation, when Dolores would receive her diploma as a "finished" young lady.

One day Dolores asked Helena to assist her in selecting and packing the books she wished to take from her uncle's library. According to his will, she was to retain such portion of his collection as she most valued.

"All those on the second and lower shelves you may take down," she said. "They are my favorites—they have helped to form my mind and principles, and they seem like personal friends to me—and far more reliable than most people."

Helena read the titles of the books as she dusted them off and placed them in the packing boxes.

There were all the works of Chas. Fourier, Histories of all the Communistic Societies of ancient and modern times; all of George Sand's Works, Voltaire, Shelley, his life and works; Life of Mary Wollstonecraft, and her "Vindication of the Rights of Women;" Onderdonk's "Marriage prohibited by the Laws of God;" Balzac's "Petty Annoyances of Married Life;" "Disadvantages of the Married State,"—an antique book bearing the date of 1761; works by Mitchell and J. Johnson on the same subject; and many others by obscure authors. With the exception of a few, they were nearly all books of which Helena had never even heard. She glanced through the pages of Fourier, and sighed.

"Dear me!" she said, "how very much deeper your mind is than my own, Dolores. I could never in the world read such books as those; I could never become interested in them. I do not think I ever knew another person so wise as you are—for your age."

"I take no credit to myself," Dolores answered; "it is all the result of my Uncle's training. 'As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined.' And yet I think my Mother's diary prepared me for this train of thought as nothing else could have done. Some day, Lena, I shall show you that diary; and then you will better comprehend me, and my ideas. But not yet; your mind is too child-like to grasp such sad truths. And still, I think they can scarcely be brought to our knowledge too soon."

Helena's curiosity was aroused, and her first impulse was to ask Dolores for the diary, or at least to urge her to reveal something of the nature of its contents. But a second thought caused her to respond in an entirely different way.

"I should wish to have my Mother read the diary first," she said, "if it contains any information on matters of which I am now ignorant. I am sure she would be the best judge, whether or not I need such instruction. She has always told me to come first to her for explanation of any thing which surprised or puzzled me. I am sure she would not approve if I disobeyed her in this instance."

"You are quite right, Lena," her friend answered, with a sense of having been quietly rebuked. "I know I have talked too freely with you on this matter; I have excited your curiosity, and to no good result. But somehow, I talk to you more unreservedly than I ever conversed with any one else. I don't know why; I have always prided myself on my reticence—yet your sweet sympathy seems to destroy my caution. I respect your delicate idea of what is due your mother, and I will not thrust my heart's convictions upon you again, dear."

Still, it was owing to Helena's own sense of honor, that Dolores had not startled and shocked her young and perfectly innocent mind, by unfolding unlovely facts, and rude truths, for which she was totally unprepared. Yet, Madame Scranton had assured Mrs. Maxon, that Miss King was an admirable companion for her young daughter. So poorly does the most careful preceptor, as a rule, understand the complex natures in her care, and so little does the most prudent parent realize the dangers to which she exposes her daughter in these boarding-school intimacies.

It seemed to Helena, that she was years older, and