"His death has indeed been a translation."
"And how does my dear mother sustain the blow?"
"She wishes to see you immediately."
They hastened to the house of mourning, but on entering the breakfast-parlour in which Mr. Roscoe had only a few hours before partaken of his last meal on earth, Mrs. Lewellin's feelings overcame her. On recovering from this hysteric fit she became more composed, and expressed a desire to see her afflicted mother, and being supported by Mr. Lewellin and Mr. Stevens, she was led into the room where the bereaved widow sat, silent and motionless, in all the solitude and agony of grief. She rose to meet her daughter, and in a moment they were closely locked in each other's embrace, but they were too much overpowered with anguish to utter any words but those of sorrow. They wept aloud, but in their weeping there was the majesty of grief, bending in unmurmuring submission to the will of their heavenly Father.
"And is my father dead?"
"Yes, my child, you have lost your father, and I have lost my husband."
Mrs. Lewellin looked round the room, and having fixed her eye on his full-length picture, she approached it, and said, "There he is! yes, there he is! My father! speak, my father! It is thy Sophia that speaks to thee!" She stood silent for a few moments, and then sunk in the arms of her husband. For several hours she continued in a state of high delirium, but became gradually composed, and retired to rest. Next morning she awoke with her feelings less agitated; and though she wept when she saw her mother, yet she spoke of their mutual loss with more tranquillity.
"Though it has pleased God," said the bereaved widow, "to deprive us of the visible presence of one we so ardently loved, we must not abandon ourselves to unavailing grief—we must not sorrow as others that have no hope; but rather bow down our souls in submission to his holy will and say, 'Even so, O righteous Father, for so it hath seemed good in thy sight.'"