it were possible for it to do so! But months are gliding quickly past, there may be letters soon for Harriet from India.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Art and eloquence

And all the shows o' the world are frail and vain,
To weep a loss that turns the light to shade.

It is a woe too deep for tears when all

Is reft at once-when some surpassing spirit,
Whose light adorned the world around is gone."

SHELLEY.

MONTHS have sped on, and there are strange-looking letters among yours this morning, John Hardy. You are startled. You remember that Miss Aveley said, "At least, I will accept your kindness until I hear from my only relative, an uncle abroad."

You thought letters would not be so long

in coming from abroad-you have been flattering yourself that she was forgotten, or not wanted, or that the uncle was dead-you have made yourself sure that she is yours to make happy in the only way which you ever heard of, by making her rich. Patience! fortitude, now! if she should be called away from you.

With a trembling hand, John Hardy gave Harriet her letters; and as her eyes fell on one of them, they filled fast with tears. "It is to my father, Mr. Hardy," said she at last, looking up to her friend. "Is there not something solemn in reading words addressed to one who is no longer on earth?"

Truly there is. In reading the letters of those who have gone before us to the grave, we feel that, "though they be dead, they yet speak." Life is in those pages-and a voice. We live, and reply to them, as of old, in our hearts. But the letters to the departed are all so different. The voice which speaks to them passes away into the distances of eter

nity, and no echo from a living heart comes back-"They are dead, and speak not," we say, mournfully.

Timidly did she break the seal of her uncle's letter to her father. In reading it, her sorrow, yet so partially subdued, came back in all its fullness. But the tone of the letter was kind and cheering. The brothers, however long they had been separated, however seldom they had written, seemed to have had perfect confidence in each other's affection, and an honourable reliance on one another for good offices when needed. Still,. it was all painful-he was gone for evershe was alone. She looked around as one often does under the influence of that feeling of abandonment. No! she was not alone,John Hardy's face expressed so much pain at her distress, that her conscience reproached her sharply for ingratitude and selfishness.

She dried her eyes quickly, and said, "Forgive me, my kind, second father! You are too much concerned for me; this feeling

will pass away; but, you know, this letter to him has recalled all my grief so strongly.

Do not think of it. Do not you grieve. Will you read the letter? There is nothing in it I could wish concealed from you."

He took the letter, because doing so served as a kind of reply-words he had none.

The other letter was addressed to herself. It was of later date than that to Mr. Aveley, but some delay, during the voyage of the vessel by which his was dispatched, caused the two to be delivered at the same time. Her letter announcing the death of her father had been received by Colonel Aveley, and was replied to under the first impressions of sorrow for her loss and his. This was the living speaking to the living-this breathed comfort. Already she loved her uncle, for he had loved her father, and he acknowledged his worth with unfeigned regret that they should never meet again on earth.

But the letter contained something more than words of affection and regret. There