Softly from the rosy east came the glorious king of
day, shedding light and warmth over hill and dale, river
and streamlet, tree and shrub. In the same room where
he had passed away, Squire Herndon lay in a long, eternal
sleep. The servants held their breath, and whispered
as they trod softly through the darkened rooms, as if
fearful of disturbing the deep slumbers of the dead.

The villagers met together, and their voices were subdued,
as they said, one to the other, “Squire Herndon is
dead.” Yes, Squire Herndon was dead, and little children
paused in their play as the solemn peal of the village
bell rang out on the clear autumn air, wakening the
echoes of the tall blue mountains, and dying away down
the bright green valley. The knell was repeated again
and again, and then came the strokes, louder, faster, and
the children counted until they were tired, for seventy-five
years had the old man numbered. At length the
sounds ceased, and the children went on with their noisy
sports, forgetful that death was among them.

In the Herndon mansion many whispered consultations
were held, as to how the body should be arranged for
burial. It was finally decided to send for Mrs. Seymour.

[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]

“She is tasty and genteel,” said one, “and knows how
such things should be done.”

Mrs. Seymour did not refuse, for she felt it her duty to
go; and yet she would much rather have braved the
storm of battle than enter that house. She, however,
bade the messenger return, saying she would soon follow.
When alone with her thoughts, she for an instant wavered.
How could she go? How again stand face to face with
the only man she ever loved? Yet she did go, trusting
that nineteen years had so changed her that she would
not be recognized.

Under her directions, everything about the house was
done so quietly, that there was nothing to grate on the
ear of him who sat alone in the large, silent parlor. He
intuitively felt that some kindred spirit was at work there,
and calling Alice to him, he asked “who the lady was
that seemed to be superintending affairs so well.”

“Mrs. Seymour,” answered Alice.

“Mrs. Seymour,” repeated her father, as if dreamily
trying to recall some past event.

“Yes, Mrs. Seymour,” said Alice. “She is Frank's
mother, and a widow.”

In an adjoining room, Mrs. Seymour, with a beating
heart, listened to the tones of that voice which she had
never hoped to hear again. Earnestly did she wish to
see the face of one whose very voice could affect her so
powerfully. Her wish was gratified, for at that moment
Alice opened the door, and Mrs. Seymour's eyes fell upon
the features of him whose remembrance she had so long
cherished. She was somewhat disappointed, for the tropical
suns of fifteen years had embrowned his once white
forehead, and a few gray hairs mingled with the dark
locks which lay around his brow.

Alice was surprised at the wild, passionate embrace

p598-273 [figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]

which Mrs. Seymour gave her, as leading her to the window,
she looked wistfully in her face, and said, “My dear
Alice, tenfold more my child than ever.”

Alarmed at the increased paleness of her friend, Alice
started forward, and said, “You are sick, faint, Mrs. Seymour.
Let me call Mr. Herndon,—I mean my father.”

But Mrs. Seymour was not faint, and she endeavored
to prevent Alice from calling her father, but in vain. Alice
called him, and he came. His daughter stood in front
of Mrs. Seymour, whose cheeks glowed and whose eyes
sparkled with the intensity of her feelings, as she met the
scarching glance of Ira Herndon.

He recognized her,—knew, as if by instinct, that he
again beheld Mary Calvert; but the fever of youth no
longer burned in his veins, so he did nothing foolish. He
merely grasped her hand, exclaiming, “Mary—Mary Calvert, —
Mrs. Seymour! God be praised, we have met
again!”