The Portrait - Page 2

spirit of the child had fled. We will not linger to pain the reader with any minute description of the deep and abiding grief that fell, like a shadow from an evil wing overspreading them, upon the household of Mr. Morton, but pass on to scenes more exciting, if not less moving to the heart.

For many weeks, Mrs. Morton could not trust herself to look up to the picture that still hung in its place, the picture of her lost one. But after time had, in some degree, mellowed the grief that weighed down her spirits, she found a melancholy delight in gazing intently upon the beautiful face that was still fresh and unchanged--that still looked the impersonation of innocence.

"He was too pure and too lovely for the earth," she said, one day, to her husband, about two months after his death, leaning her head upon his shoulder--"and so the angels took him."

"Then do not grieve for him," Mr. Morton replied in a soothing tone. "We know that he is with the angels, and where they are, is neither evil, nor sorrow, nor pain. Much as I loved him, much as I grieved for his loss, I would not recall him if I could. But, our picture cannot die. And though it is mute and inanimate, yet it is something to awaken remembrances, that, even though sad, we delight to cherish. It is something to remind us, that we have a child in heaven."

But the loss of their child seemed but the beginning of sorrows to Mr. Morton and his family. An unexpected series of failures in business so fatally involved him, that extrication became impossible. He was an honest man, and therefore, this sudden disastrous aspect of affairs was doubly painful, for he knew no other course but the honourable giving up of everything. On learning the whole truth in relation to his business, he came home, and after opening the sad news to his wife, he called his family around him.

"My dear children," he said, "I have painful news to break to you; but you cannot know it too soon. Owing to a succession of heavy failures, my business has become embarrassed beyond hope. I must give up all,--even our comfortable and elegant home must be changed for one less expensive, and less comfortable. Can you, my children, bear with cheerfulness and contentment such a changed condition?"

The heart of each one had already been subdued and chastened by the affliction that removed the little playmate of all so suddenly away, and now the news of a painful and unlooked-for reverse came with a shock that, for a few moments, bewildered and alarmed.

"Are not my children willing to share the good and evil of life with their father?" Mr. Morton resumed after the gush of tears that followed the announcement of his changed fortunes had in a degree subsided.

"Yes, dear father! be they what they may," Constance, the eldest, a young lady in her seventeenth year, said, looking up