WHEN the slumber passed away, which had mercifully deadened Christina's sensations, she started up with a bewildered look round the room.
It was the bedroom her father had lately occupied. But no father lay in the bed. She also found herself dressed in her clothes, and on a bed on the floor.
Her father; where was he? Was he still sitting in the chair—so cold! Could she not go and entreat him to rest?
She hurried to her feet; and as her senses became more fully awakened, she began to have a certain dim perception that it would be of no use to go to her father. Still she went. She opened the door noiselessly, and stood on the quiet landing, in the still early morning before anyone was up. Then she hesitated, and finally very cautiously opened the drawing room door. The room was very still—very, very still, she felt. She looked towards the arm-chair, and then she remembered more of what had happened. Then her glance took in the sofa, hidden under a snowy covering.
She knew now; knew all. She went up to it gently, and softly lifting the sheet, gazed on the features. Then she stooped and kissed the forehead tenderly.
"My beloved!" she said quietly, in a low caressing tone.
Turning away, she went softly upstairs. In the room above lay the other loved one. She entered and, as she had done downstairs, lifted the covering, and looked once more on this face too. She meant to be very strong, and after softly kissing her mother's forehead was again turning away, when a horror of great darkness fell upon her, and throwing herself on her knees she gave way to the wildest weeping.
"Mother, mother!" she sobbed, "Why did you both leave me? My mother! My father! I am bereft of all!"
She wept on till it seemed as if she had no more tears to weep, and then she lay exhausted. Her own words kept on coming back to her—"Bereft of all!" Ah! No one knew but her father and mother what she had lost, only such a little while ago. No one could comfort her now—no one!
Did no one know? In her anguish the words of peace stole over her heart,—