It is Nelly's own fair hand, yet sadly blotted,—blotted with her tears, and blotted with yours.
----"It is all over, dear, dear Clarence! Oh, how I wish you were here to mourn with us! I can hardly now believe that our poor mother is indeed dead."
----Dead!—It is a terrible word! You repeat it with a fresh burst of grief. The letter is crumpled in your hand. Unfold it again, sobbing, and read on.
"For a week she had been failing every day; but on Saturday we thought her very much better. I told her I felt sure she would live to see you again.
"'I shall never see him again, Nelly,' said she, bursting into tears."
----Ah, Clarence, where is your youthful pride, and your strength now?—with only that frail paper to annoy you, crushed in your grasp!
"She sent for father, and taking his hand in hers, told him she was dying. I am glad you did not see his grief. I was kneeling beside her, and she put her hand upon my head, and let it rest there for a moment, while her lips moved as if she were praying.
"'Kiss me, Nelly,' said she, growing fainter: kiss me again for Clarence.'
"A little while after she died."
For a long time you remain with only that letter, and your thought, for company. You pace up and down your chamber: again you seat yourself, and lean your head upon the table, enfeebled by the very grief that you cherish still. The whole day passes thus: you excuse yourself from all companionship: you have not the heart to tell the story of your troubles to Dalton,—least of all, to Miss Dalton. How is this? Is sorrow too selfish, or too holy?