"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 must be so, I know it. But, after a little
while may you be happy again, not so buoyant as you have been, that can
never be, but still happy!--You are formed for love and home, and for
those ties you once thought would be mine. God grant that I may have
suffered for us both, and that when we meet hereafter, you may tell me
you have been happy here!"

"But you, father," added Madeline, tearing herself from the neck of
her weeping sister, and sinking on her knees before Lester, who leaned
against the wall convulsed with his emotions, and covering his face with
his hands--"but you,--what can I say to you?--You, who have never,--no,
not in my first childhood, said one harsh word to me--who have sunk all
a father's authority in a father's love,--how can I say all that I
feel for you?--the grateful overflowing, (paining, yet--oh, how sweet!)
remembrances which crowd around and suffocate me now?--The time will
come when Ellinor and Ellinor's children must be all in all to you--when
of your poor Madeline nothing will be left but a memory; but they, they
will watch on you and tend you, and protect your grey hairs from sorrow,
as I might once have hoped I also was fated to do."

"My child! my child! you break my heart!" faltered forth at last the
poor old man, who till now had in vain endeavoured to speak.

"Give me your blessing, dear father," said Madeline, herself overcome by
her feelings;--"Put your hand on my head and bless me--and say, that if
I have ever u