Sephora ran to meet her mother, and threw herself into her arms. Her heart was too full to speak, but she bathed her bosom with her silent tears.

Pythonissa was astonished at the composure of her grief, and thought it insensibility; but she had hopes that her poor mother knew not of.

They now again moved forward, the minstrels playing and chanting the solemn songs of death, till they came to where the corpse lay, when they again uttered the same frantic shrieks of woe as when they first beheld it from the heights.

This formal ceremony over, they took up the body and prepared to move it to his house. The widow went first with all the gestures of grief in her action, and much of its oppressive weight at her heart. Sephora silently followed the bier, feeling that though her earthly joys were cut short, her father and her hope were both in heaven.

As they passed by the cave, the scene of so many happy days, she could not restrain her sobs and tears. The sheep who were

still grazing before it, seemed to forget their food as the mournful procession passed, and looked up with heavy eyes, as if they knew who it was that was slowly borne along, while the faithful dog who had all night been guarding the flock, jumped whining on the bier, licked his master's hands and face, and scarcely could the minstrels drive him off, while he mixed with theirs his untimed notes of woe.

When Sephora came near the cottage she trembled exceedingly. She had never yet approached it but with a dancing heart; and the sad contrast; the thousand conflicting thoughts of home-born joys now past, and tedious days to come, rushed at once upon her mind; and when she saw her beloved father's pallid corse borne through their rose-clad porch, she fell senseless to the ground. The minstrels here again set up their funeral cry, as for the poor widow she felt so overpowered, that she forgot all the forms of woe.

CHAPTER II.

BUT leaving the further description of a wife and daughter's sorrow on the first amazement of grief at the loss of a husband and a father, let us pass on to the time when it was somewhat familiarized to their minds. And here poor Sephora's grief might be almost said to begin, or at least to assume a new character. At first, the thought of her father's happiness had almost raised her above the reach of sorrow. But though her confidence on this subject had not at all abated, yet its influence on her mind had very much decreased, while she every day became more and more sensible of the greatness of her loss.

Her former employments were now all over, or if not over, failed to give delight, and time which used to be gladdened by constant occupation, now seemed to ache as it passed.

The human mind must have something to do, to suffer or to enjoy; and we find that the dead calms of life often produce a greater nausea of existence than the roughest storms and billows of adversity.

Sephora felt that in yielding to this corroding grief, she was giving way to that proud spirit which refuses to be happy but in its own way. She called herself severely to account for not having resisted the indulgence of those selfish feelings. She considered that this world is a world of trial and not of uninterrupted enjoyment, and she earnestly prayed that she might both see her line of duty, and be able to fulfil it.

Her prayer was heard, and soon the approving voice of conscience whispered in her ear, This is the way, walk ye in it.'

She now devoted the whole of her life to her mother, and in seeking her comfort she found her own, which she once thought was gone for ever. She was now watchful over all her actions, she forbore to do any thing that seemed to excite too tender a sorrow, and to enfeeble her mind.

She left off going alone to tend the flock, where every hill, and rock, and flowery dale, all that was loveliest in nature, reminded her of her father; to look on these scenes was to sigh, they were as the tombs of hours that were past, and faithful memory could never pass them unread.

Sephora's mother was a much less amiable character than her lost parent; her temper was bad, she was generally complaining, and she had but little of that instinctive tender affection which seems the peculiar gift of mothers. She had altogether been more a source of grief than happiness to her husband: not on account of these infirmities of disposition, for he, through divine grace, had so far conquered his own, as to be able to bear cheerfully with hers. But what grieved him, was, that he knew her heart was not right in the sight of God.

He had one day, a few years after they were married, been to the city of Nain, to take his baskets, and on his return he was tempted to trace the course of a stream,