"Then for a brief while good-by," said my brother kindly. "Do not forget that rest, especially to one but recently entered upon the new life, is not only one of the pleasures, but one of the duties of heaven."
"Yes, we will see that she does not forget that," said my father, with a kindly smile and glance.
CHAPTER IV.
O joys that are gone, will you ever return
To gladden our hearts as of yore?
Will we find you awaiting us, some happy morn,
When we drift to Eternity's shore?
Will dear eyes meet our own, as in days that are past?
Will we thrill at the touch of a hand?
O joys that are gone, will we find you at last
On the shores of that wonderful land?
Soon after my brother's departure my mother said, grasping my hand:
"Come, I am eager to have you in our own home;" and we all passed out of the rear entrance, walked a few hundred yards across the soft turf, and entered a lovely home, somewhat similar to our own, yet still unlike it in many details. It also was built of marble, but darker than that of my brother's home. Every room spoke of modest refinement and cultivated taste, and the home air about it was at once delightfully perceptible. My father's study was on the second floor, and the first thing I noticed on entering was the luxuriant branches and flowers of an old-fashioned hundred-leafed rose tree, that covered the window by his desk.
"Ah!" I cried, "I can almost imagine myself in your old study at home, when I look at that window."
"Is it not a reminder?" he said, laughing happily. "I almost think sometimes it is the same dear old bush, transplanted here."
"And it is still your favorite flower?" I queried.