children as she had been, and still was this noble and gentle woman,
could part from a beloved one even for a brief space, even for
happiness, without one pang, selfish as it might be, selfish as perhaps
it was? for anxiety for the future darkened not the prospects of earthly
bliss, her trust in the character of St. Eval was too confiding; it was
only her fond heart which for a time would be so desolate. Her ear would
linger in vain for the voice it loved; her eye seek in sorrow for the
graceful form, the beauteous features on which it had so loved to gaze.
New ties would supply to Caroline the place of all that she had left;
deep springs of fond emotions, such as she had never felt before, would
open in her heart, and then would she still love, would she still look
to that mother, as in childhood and in youth she had done? Vainly she
struggled to subdue these thoughts, and bring forward in their stead the
visions of happiness, which alone had visited her before. Thronging and
tumultuously they came, and tears stole slowly from those mild eyes,
which for herself so seldom wept; while engrossed in her own
reflections, she heard not the soft and careful opening of her door, she
knew not that the beloved object of those tears had entered her room,
and was kneeling beside her.

"Mother!" murmured Caroline, in a voice tremulous and weak with emotion
equal to her own. Mrs. Hamilton started, and her lip quivered with the
effort she made to smile her greeting. "Mother, my own mother, forgive
my intrusion; I thought not to have found you thus. Oh, deem me not
failing in that deep reverence your goodness, your devotedness, have
taught me to feel for you; if my love would bid me ask you why you weep,
may I not share your sorrow, mother?"

"These are but selfish tears, my own; selfish, for they fall only when I
think that to-morrow bears my Caroline away, and leaves her mother's