"
The answer returned to this letter was as follows:--
"I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is in
existence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it be
insurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted your
faithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to _know_
that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations,
and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above and
beyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be but
the opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what
you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, and
a stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I am
yours for ever."
Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of that
remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passed
their childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where the
baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother
of the bishop gave the bride away!
THE LITTLE CHILDREN.
IT was Sabbath morning. Soft and silvery, like stray notes from the
quivering chords of an archangel's harp, floated the clear, sweet
voice of the church-bells through the hushed heart of the great
metropolis, while old men and little children--youth in its hope,
and manhood in its pride--came forth at their summons, setting a
mighty human tide in the direction of the sanctuaries, beneath whose
sacred droppings they should hear again the tidings which come to us
over the waves of nearly two thousand years, fresh and full of
exceeding melody, as when the Day-Star from on high first poured its
blessed beams over the mountain heights of Judea, and the song,
pealing over the hills of jasper, rolled down to the shepherds who
kept their night-watches on her plains; "Peace on earth and
good-will to men.
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