Overwhelmed by distress, Montgomery had read the letter of Miss Moreton with trembling agitation. The sorrow of his mother, the affliction of his sisters, had almost bereft him of his self-possession, and he had been fearfully conjuring up the thousand evils which would await them.

His own prospects, if not blighted, were wholly obscured. Instead of pushing his way in the bustling and crowded walks of life, in order to further his advancement; his narrow path now lay before him. The small living which his father had held would remain in the family. He must immediately take orders; and, residing with his mother and sisters, try to contract his wishes, and to repress his hopes; and be to them the husband, the father they had lost.

Montgomery had never been ambitious; but independent in principles, and liberal in his disposition, his warm heart panted to be the protector of all around; and his sanguine fancy had often portrayed, in the gayest tints, that picture of domestic felicity, which could not be completed, unless a gentle being, like Mary Cuthbert, had formed the prominent figure of the piece. Alas! this picture was now obscured for ever.

While such had been the gloomy images of Montgomery's mind, the letter of Miss Moreton had been put into his hand. He read it with the eagerness of a drowning wretch, who catches at a twig to preserve him from the overwhelming wave. He saw in it only a description of his affection for Mary Cuthbert, he saw (transporting sight!) that the dear maid returned his love! That Miss Moreton, her protectress, favoured it, and meant to reward it! Who can wonder at this misconstruction of the letter of Miss Moreton? Who can wonder that it was some days ere Montgomery became convinced of his mistake?

The interment of Mr. Montgomery had been succeeded by that calm which casts so chilling a feel on those who have recently witnessed the spectacle of human annihilation, and who mourn the loss of a beloved friend.