knew not whether of joy or pain, and rising from the posture in which grief had thrown him, he went and bowed himself over the silent form.

One gone, another come.

But the little being had her life in its veins, and slowly he felt himself drawn earthward by this new claim upon his love and sympathy.

A strange feeling came over him as the nurse took the little child, and laid upon the bed the robes its mother had prepared for it.

It was too much, and the heart-stricken man left the room, and locking himself in his library, where he had spent so many happy hours with his lost one, gave full vent to the deep anguish of his soul. He heard the kind physician's steps as he left, and no more. For hours he sat bowed in grief, and silent, while sorrow's bitter waters surged over him.

No more would her sweet smile light his home; no more her voice call his name in those tender tones, that had so often been music to his ears; no more could they walk or sit in the moonlight and converse. Was it really true? Had Alice gone, or was it not all a troubled dream?

Noon came, and his brow became more fevered. But there was no soft hand to soothe the pain away. Night came, and still he sat and mourned; and then the sound of voices reached his ears. He roused himself to meet the friends and relations of his dear departed one, and then all seemed vague, indefinite and dreamlike.

The funeral rites, the burial, the falling earth upon the coffin lid; these all passed before him, then like one in a stupor he went back to his home, and took up the broken threads of life again, and learned to live and smile for his bright-eyed, beautiful Dawn. May she be Dawn to the world, he said unto himself, as he looked into her heaven-blue eyes; then thanked God that his life was spared to guide her over life's rough seas, and each day brought fresh inspirations of hope, new aspirations of strength, and more confiding trust in Him whose ways are not as our ways.

CHAPTER II.

Dawn grew to be very beautiful. Every day revealed some new charm, until Hugh feared she too might go and live with the angels. But there was a mission for her to perform on the earth, and she lived.

Each day he talked to her of her mother, and kept her memory alive to her beautiful traits, until the child grew so familiar with her being as to know no loss of her bodily presence, save in temporal affairs.

A faithful and efficient woman kept their house, and cared for Dawn's physical wants; her father attending to her needs, both mental and spiritual, until she reached the age of seven, when a change in his business required him to be so often away from home, that he advertised for a governess to superintend her studies and her daily deportment.

"What was mamma like?" asked Dawn of her father one evening as they sat in the moonlight together, "was she like the twilight?"

He turned upon the child with admiration, for to him nothing in nature could better be likened unto his lost and lovely Alice.

"Yes, darling," he said, kissing her again and again, "mamma was just like the twilight—sweet, tender, and soothing."

"Then I am not at all like mamma?" she remarked, a little sadly.

"And why?"

"Because I am strong and full of life. I always feel as though it was just daylight. I never feel tired, papa, I only feel hushed."

"Heaven grant my daughter may never be weary," he said, and stooped to kiss her, while he brushed away a tear which started as he did so.

"I shall never be weary while I have you, papa. You will never leave me, will you?"

"I hope to be spared many years to guard and love my charge."

A few days after, Dawn was surprised to find the governess, of whom her father had spoken, in the library, and her father with his carpet-bag packed, ready for a journey.

"Am I not going too, papa?" she said, turning on him her face, as though her heart was ready to burst with grief. It was their first parting, and equally hard for parent and child.

"Not this time, darling, but in the summer we shall go to the sea-shore and the mountains, and take Miss Vernon with us. Come, this is your teacher, Dawn; I want you to be very good and obedient while I am away," and then, looking at his watch, he bade them both adieu.

He knew the child was weeping bitterly. All the way to the cars, and on the journey through that long, sunny day, he felt her calling him back. There could be no real separation between them, and it was painful to part, and keep both so drawn and attenuated in spirit.

In vain Miss Vernon exerted herself to make the child happy. It was of no use. Her delicate organism had received its first shock; but in due time her spirit broke through the clouds in its native brilliancy, and there was no lingering shadow left on her sky. Dawn was as bright and smiling as she had been sad and dispirited.

"I will gather some wild flowers and make the room all bright and lovely for papa," she said, and in a moment was far away.

"It's no use training her, you see, Miss," the good housekeeper asserted, as a sort of an apology for the child, whom she loved almost to idolatry, "might as well try to trap the sunlight or catch moonbeams. She'll have her way, and, somehow to me, her way seems always right. Will you please step out to tea, Miss, and then I will go and look after her; or, if you like, you can follow that little path that leads from the garden gate to the hill where she has gone for her flowers."

Miss Vernon was glad to go; and after a light supper, was on her way, almost fearful that the child might consider her an intruder, for she instinctively felt that she must work her way into the affections of her new charge.

She followed the path to the hill, and after walking for some time and not finding Dawn, was about to retrace her steps, when she heard a low, sweet voice, chanting an evening hymn. She sat upon a bed of grey moss until the chanting ceased, and then went in the direction from which the sound came.

There sat Dawn, with eyes uplifted, lips parted as though in conversation, and features glowing with intensest emotion. Then the eyes dropped, and her little hands were pressed to her heart, as though the effort had been too great.

Slowly Miss Vernon stepped towards her. Dawn caught her eye, and motioned her to come nearer.

"Are you not lonely here, child?" she asked.

"Lonely? O, no. I am not alone, Miss Vernon, God is here, and I am so full I sing, or I should die. Did you hear me?"

"I did. Who taught you that beautiful chant?"

"No one; it grew in me; just as the flowers grow on the plants."

"I have an instructor here, and one I shall find more interesting than tractable," mused the governess, as she looked upon the child. But Dawn was not learned in one day, as she afterwards found.

The sun sank behind the hills just as they entered the garden together. Dawn missed her father too much to be quite up to her usual point of life, and she went and laid herself down upon a couch in the library, and chatted away the hour before her bedtime. She missed him more than she could tell; and then she thought to herself, "Who can I tell how much I miss my father?"

"Did you ever have any body you loved go away, Miss Vernon?" she at last ventured to ask, and her voice told what she suffered.

"I have no near friends living, dear child."

"What! did they all die? Only my mamma is dead; but I don't miss her; I think she must be in the air, I feel her so. Have n't you any father, Miss Vernon?"

"No. He died when I was quite young, and then my mother, and before I came here I buried my last near relative-an aunt."

"But aunts don't know us, do they?"

"Why not? I don't quite understand you," she said, wishing to bring the child out.

"Why, they don't feel our souls. I have got aunts and cousins, but they seem