so
quiet and gentle--let us gather up the events of the past, and learn the
cause of a death so tragic, a grief so piercing.

In the year 1672, at the age of nineteen years, a young man (the son of
a baronet) led to the altar the lovely daughter of Sir Timothy Tyrrel.
Flowers strewed the path of the wedded pair, and for years their life
was one scene of bliss. At last, struck down by disease, Charles Blount
stood by the side of his dying wife--in his arms _his_ Eleanora yielded
her last sigh. He buried her by the willow-tree in the old churchyard.
The lily blended with the white rose, and the myrtle overshadowed the
grave. It was here where the widower rested in the evening--here where
he taught his children the virtues of their dead mother. Sometimes he
gazed at the azure skies, and strange fancies beguiled the mind of the
mourner. When he saw the sun sink to the west, gilding the world with
its glorious rays, he mused on the creeds of many lands. He fancied he
saw a heaven and a God, and traced in the lines of light the
patriarchal worshippers of the world. He looked at the sun and its
worshippers--those who sought the origin of purity by worshipping that
which is the origin of all good. He looked at the fables of Greece, and
found delight in the thought of Sappho uttering her diapason of joy in
lyrics which told of love and beauty; at Egypt, where the priests, in
their esoteric cunning, searched in vain for that which gives life, and
motion, and joy; and then he glanced at the Christian heaven, but here
all was dark--dark as the Plutonian caverns of Homer's hell. He
wished to meet his Eleanora--not in Pagan dreams--not in Christian
parables--but in the world of realities. He looked with eager eyes upon
the world around him, in society, at Court, and, in the homes of his
country. But wherever he went, there was but one thought--one feeling.
He wished a mother for his children--a mother like the sainted dead.
There was but one who answered the ideal--like in features, in passion,
and in beauty--to the lost Eleanora. Born of the same parents, loved by
the same brother, educated by the same teachers, imbued with the same
thoughts, she was the model of her dead sister; with a sisterly love
for her brother, she was already both mother and aunt to her sister's
children.

With deliberate thoughts, with convulsive passion, the love of Charles
Blount passed the bounds of that of a brother; longing to make her his
wife, he ad