THE HUSBAND'S RETURN.

That evening Rhoda was alone in that silent death-chamber—very silent and mournfully white it was—the pale face of the dead, cold and beautiful as marble, was crowned with a wreath of white roses, which Luke had reverently laid upon it. The window was open, and the cool night wind stirred the snowy whiteness of the curtain, and a strain of heavenly music stole through with it; music from Luke's violin. The boy could not rest with death in the house, and poured his grief out in sounds that seemed to be calling that spirit home with soft, plaintive cries.

Mr. Hudson had gone out. Duties awaited him among the famished souls gathering behind the old church, and he carried the burden of his sorrows down there, believing that the dead could hear him from that place, and know that he had not fainted at his post.

Rhoda was startled in her watch by a man's footstep on the stairs. Thinking that it was Mr. Hudson coming home, she opened the door that he might be guided by the gleam of her lamp. But, instead of Mr. Hudson, she stood face to face with William Sterling.

Rhoda started back in dumb astonishment, but Sterling seized her hand in both his and began to question her eagerly.

"Where is she. Oh, little Rhoda, tell me that she is well. Go in, child, and say that I am here."

Rhoda stood in dead silence a moment, then she stepped aside and pointed toward that calm marble face.

"Oh, Mr. Sterling! She is there! Dead! Dead!"

"Dead!" he groaned. "Oh, my God! Let me see her, at least! Stand out of the way—let me in!"

Rhoda put up her hands with an appealing gesture.

"Wait," she said, with a great effort; "there's nobody there, and you seem so strange."

Sterling pushed by her, saw the pale face under its crown of flowers, and uttered a cry of terrible despair.

"Dead? She can't be dead! Why wasn't I written to before? Why didn't you give me time to get here? Oh! it was cruel! cruel!"

He flung himself on his knees by the bed, and covered his face with his hands.

"I didn't write," Rhoda said; "how could I? I didn't know——"

"No one ever did write to me; and I grew terribly anxious. I've traveled night and day, and to find her dead! Oh, my darling! my darling!"

"Don't! don't! you frighten me!" said Rhoda, sobbing.

Sterling's hands fell to his side; he turned his haggard face upon the child:

"You loved her," he said, "I know that, but not as I did—but you stayed with her, while I kept away—and now she is dead, my own love, my beautiful Constance. Dead, and so changed; herself, and not herself. Ah, little Rhoda, I know you pity me, for you loved her."

"Yes, I loved her, poor thing, and so did Luke, but it is of no use now."

"And Mr. Hudson, where is he?"

"Gone away, I don't know where. He said nothing, but took his hat with a great, heavy sigh, and left me here alone."

"I had something to tell him, but it is all over now, my poor darling, all over."

Rhoda began to sob; the young man's grief nearly broke her heart.

"Don't, don't take on so," she said. "Crying won't bring her back."

"I know it, I know it. Nothing will bring her back. Tell me, child, had she care? did she lack for anything?"

"The best of care. I nursed her days, and he did nights. She was never left alone."

"Did she never speak of me, Rhoda?"

"Often and often, when you first went away, but after that she was too weak for talking."

"And she never spoke of me at the last?"

"No, not at the last, not once that I can think of."

"Rhoda, will you leave me alone with her. Let me watch this one night?"

"Yes, if you want to so much, I'll go."

Rhoda cast a sorrowing look at the bed and went out of the room; then the plaintive music of Luke's violin stole through the house, undisturbed by a human voice, and so the dead rested till daylight. Then Rhoda came down stairs again, and William Sterling left the house.

Two days after this, a humble funeral passed through the gates of Greenwood, and a small group of mourners stood by while a grave was filled. One was an old man whose hair seemed to have drifted into whiteness all at once. The others were a little, active man, who wept much, and two children, a boy and girl, who stood hand in hand, weeping as that coffin was lowered out of sight.

After they had gone, a young man came out from a group of trees where he had lingered, and all that night William Sterling remained by the newly-made grave.