stood by the
side of the bed.

"What is the matter, George?" she cried; the question was repeated by the
aunt, and the eyes of the parent sought languidly the face of the youth,
which was, however, now covered by his hands. The question was more than
once repeated by both the aunt and myself; the father never spoke, nor
could I perceive a single ray of curiosity in his eye. He seemed to await
the issue of the son's explanation, heedless what it might be--whether the
announcement of a great or a lesser evil--its magnitude, though
transcending the bounds of ordinary bearing, comprehending every other
misfortune that fate could have in store for him, being, whatever its
proportions, as nothing to the death-stricken heart of one whose hope was
buried.

"This is scarcely a time or an occasion, George," said I, "for the
manifestation of these emotions. If the cause lies in the grief, come back
with increased force, for the death of your mother, you should have known
that there is one lying there whose load is still greater, and who is,
unfortunately, as yet, beyond the relief which, as your agitation
indicates, nature in the young heart is working for you."

"The death!--the death!" he muttered in a choking voice; "but there is
something after the death that is worse than the death itself."

"Are you distracted, George?" said the aunt. "This Bible was the hand-book
and the rule of your mother's conduct in this world. A better woman never
offered up her prayers at the fountain of the waters of immortal life; no
one that ever lived had a better right to draw from the blessing, or better
qualified for enjoying it as she now enjoys it. She is in heaven; and will
you say that that is worse than death?"

"You speak of her spirit, aunt," replied he, as he still covered his face
with his hands. "Her spirit is there!"--and he took away one of his hands
from his face and pointed to heaven--"There, where the saints rest, does my
mother's soul rest; but, O God, where--where is the body?"

A thought struck me on the instant. I was afraid to utter it. I looked at
the father, and suspected, from the sudden light of animation that started
to his eye, that the gloom of his mind had at last been penetrated by the
thought which had suggested itself to me.

"Where is the body!" responded the aunt. "Why, George, where should it be
but in C---- churchyard, beneath the stone that has told the virtues of her
ancestors, and will, in a short ti