"Come in, father," said Madeline, in a calm and even cheerful voice; and
the old man entered.

He cast a silent glance over Madeline's white dress, and then at his own,
which was deep mourning: the glance said volumes, and its meaning was not
marred by words from any one of the three.

"Yes, father," said Madeline, breaking the pause,--"We are all ready. Is
the carriage here?"

"It is at the door, my child."

"Come then, Ellinor, come!"--and leaning on her arm, Madeline walked
towards the door. When she got to the threshold, she paused, and looked
round the room.

"What is it you want?" asked Ellinor.

"I was but bidding all here farewell," replied Madeline, in a soft and
touching voice: "And now before we leave the house, Father,--Sister, one
word with you;--you have ever been very, very kind to me, and most of all
in this bitter trial, when I must have taxed your patience sadly--for I
know all is not right here, (touching her forehead)--I cannot go forth
this day without thanking you. Ellinor, my dearest friend--my fondest
sister--my playmate in gladness--my comforter in grief--my nurse in
sickness;--since we were little children, we have talked together, and
laughed together, and wept together, and though we knew all the thoughts
of each other, we have never known one thoughts that we would have
concealed from God;--and now we are going to part?--do not stop me, it