always tolerably stocked. On a signal, a species of tombolo ensued: certain of the crumbs were thrown out; the first person who felt himself inspired made a grab, or as it was more correctly termed a “pick,” and a lecture, or rather series of interlocutory sermons followed, upon the text so drawn, which, with others, more or less diversified the evening until it was time for psalms and prayer again. To this amusement my uncle had rigidly adhered during my last two vacations. I find no fault with him for it, nor with those who joined with him in it, whatever distaste I may have felt at the time. I merely mention it to show how it affected the circumstances of which I am speaking, and of the temper in which my unhappy uncle regarded the loss of his daughter. I expected, of course, that on this night at least we should have to “pick no crumbs,”—that at all events the hours would be devoted to mourning and to silence, though a silence of wretchedness. Never was I more mistaken. The usual crumb-pickers assembled. There was the usual grave shake of the hand, the long prayer, the tombolo, and the sermons by those who felt themselves “moved.” In the midst of it an express actually arrived with news respecting the fearful circumstance which held the household in suspense. The “crumbs” were at the moment on the table. With a feeling of instinct, each hand seemed stayed from grasping for them. My uncle, however, quietly squeezed the express paper in his hands, with the earnest adjuration to his next neighbour, “Pick, sir, pray pick.”
But this could not last. The next day had gone and no tidings, and the next, and my uncle seemed at last to be giving in. The whole neighbourhood had been ransacked, every friend and acquaintance that Edith had ever possessed, had been applied to—magisterial aid had been evoked—but there were neither tidings nor trace of the missing girl. The fifth day from her loss was a Sunday. Early in the forenoon the friends and co-religionists of Colonel Gersom anxiously thronged the dining-room for intelligence. I was there, terribly sick at heart, for I had slept little since my arrival, and having contributed my exertions also for intelligence over the country, I was exhausted bodily as well as mentally. By degrees it was mentioned that the Colonel was ill, and the body of persons present diminished, from motives of delicacy, to some half-dozen. I waited however, mechanically, I think, for I had nowhere else to go, and I felt an irresistible attraction in remaining in the company of others whose thoughts were riveted on the same subject as my own. I conversed, however, with none. With my head leant partly on my hand, I sat in an angle of the room, my eyes resting on a large bowl, or rather glass trough of water, containing gold-fish, which stood in a recess hard by a window. It was before the days of “Aquaria,” and the one before me would in these times have been thought insignificant. It was a curiosity however then, and the rare fish within it, had been especial pets of poor lost Edith. As I looked on them this fact came before me in full force, and it seemed to me as if the present still aspect of the little silvery finned tribe within had been unchanged since my arrival. Alive they all certainly were, and all placed differently; but each appeared to have one golden-rimmed eye on me earnestly, seriously, unwaveringly, while their gills and fins flapped mourningly, and in measured shake, as if upbraiding my want of vigour in this grievous strait. The thought afflicted me so much that I was turning my eyes away when my uncle entered. He pressed the hands of one or two friends in a weary manner, meant however to be grateful, and begged the rector who had entered the room with him, to explain his wishes on a point near his heart. They were, that those present should, before they separated for divine service, join in prayer in that spot in behalf of the one sole hope left him on earth. He could not leave the house, but it would be comfort to him to feel that they had in his company offered their united supplications to the Being of all mercy for help in his present visitation. There and then we all knelt together. The rector spoke—no other save by murmurs—earnestly and affectingly did he touch on the blow that had fallen on the house, and according to the mode of faith then in vogue, he not only prayed, but asked for some direct token of the lost girl’s fate. I have no right, however, nor do I pretend here to complain of the form. The speaker’s words were from the heart, and they went to my heart, and when we rose to our feet my face, at least, was bathed in tears. Still I felt calmer, and more tranquil, and save that I could not keep my eyes from the fish in the glass tank, I certainly was more composed. It is then from no excitement of mind that I came to behold that which was vouchsafed to the astonished eyes of all that little party.
When the persons present rose from prayer, they were grouped in a sort of semi-circle, looking towards the vase of water, the rector and my uncle being alone with their backs towards it. On a sudden, one of the party raised a cry, and the eyes of all, the two persons last mentioned included, turned in the direction of his gaze. Standing by the vase stood Edith—so plain that I for one, could have vouched for her being there in life. She wore the dress in which she had left home, but it seemed drenched as if by exposure to the weather. On her head was nothing; but her hair on one side, dripping and dishevelled, hung unkempt upon her shoulder, on the other it seemed matted, and held to its place by some means which I could not discern. Her face and look was stretched towards my uncle, and were for him alone. The countenance was tearful, and seemed anxiously to bespeak his attention, as if to some action she was about to perform. I just remember his giving a groan, bowing his head now, in a moment, more aged than it had been a moment before, and raising it with outstretched hand respectfully again as if in obedience to her demand. Then did Edith deliberately before us all dip her small hand into the vase, and raise it high, while the water fell palpably splashing from her palm into it. Again she dipped, and again repeated the action, and this time a sad, weeping look o’erspread her features—again the water fell—the fish sprang round at the sound, and, covering her features madly with her hands, she disappeared.
