She began to recall her whole acquaintance with Dare--their hours of pleasant study--their sails upon the river--their intercourse by the fireside--the most happy Sundays, when they walked in the house of God together.

In those days, what a blessed future was before them! She recalled also the time of hope and anxiety after the storming of the Alamo, and then the last heroic act of his stainless life.

She had felt sure that in such a session with her own soul she would find the relief of unrestrained and unchecked weeping.

But we cannot kindle when we will either the fire or the sensibility of the soul.

She could not weep; tears were far from her.
Nay, more, she began to feel as if tears were not needed for one who had found out so beautiful, so unselfish, so divine a road to the grave.
Ought she not rather to rejoice that he had been so early called and blest?
To be glad for herself, too, that all her life long she could keep the exquisite memory of a love so noble?
In the drift of such thoughts, her white, handsome face grew almost angelic.