He hardly knew how after this he made his way up the garden walk, to the cottage, nor how, when finding it all closed, he still had strength to go on to his father’s house, where he was received with many tears, by his parents, his sisters, and his children. The deep mourning dress of the whole sad group told of itself the story of his desolation. For some time, he neither spoke nor wept, but supported by his father, and leaning his head on his mother’s breast, he swayed back and forth, while his deep, constant groans shook his strong frame, and burdened all the air about him. Finally, in a scarce audible voice, he asked:
“Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last! She came to me—her blessed angel came to bid me farewell. Oh, that divine love which could not die with thee, Dora, Dora!”
Then with a light over his face which was almost a smile, he turned to his poor children, gathered them to his embrace, and wept with them.
Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been fragile and delicate, had at last died of a rapid decline. She had been confined to her room but a few weeks, and to her bed scarcely a day. She passed away with great tranquillity of spirit, though suffering much physical pain. Her children were with her at the last, and her patience, serenity, and holy resignation seemed to repress the passionate outbursts of their childish grief till all was over.
It was not until some time had passed that Captain Preston felt himself able to open a large package placed in his hands by his mother, and which Dora had left for him—sealed up and directed with her own hand, the very day before she died.
At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and shutting himself up in that dear familiar chamber, with the pleasant window looking out on the sea—there where he had seen her last—where she had breathed out her pure spirit—where her form had lain in death—there he lifted his heart to God for strength, kissed the seal and broke it. Before him lay a rich mass of dark auburn hair—Dora’s beautiful hair! With a low cry, half joy, half pain, he caught it, pressed it to his lips and heart, and bedewed it with his abundant tears. Suddenly he observed that those long, bright tresses were wound about a letter—a letter addressed to him in Dora’s own familiar hand. He sank into a seat, unfolded the precious missive, and read—what we will give in the chapter following.