Ophelia, who had resolved to sit up all night with her little charge, and who at the turn of the night had discerned what experienced nurses called "a change." The outer door was quickly opened and Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert in a moment. "Go for the doctor, Tom! Lose not a moment," said Miss Ophelia; and stepping across the room she rapped at St. Clair's door. "Cousin," she said, "I wish you would come." These words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why did they? He was up and in the room in an instant, and bending over Eva, who still slept. What was it that made his heart stand still? Why was no word spoken between the two? Thou canst say, who has seen that same expression on the face dearest to thee,that look indescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that says to thee that thy beloved is no longer thine. On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly imprint,-only a high and almost sublime expression,-the overshadowing presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish soul. They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the ticking of the clock seemed too loud. In a few moments Tom returned with the doctor. He entered, gave one look and stood as silent as the rest. "When did this change take place?" said he, in a low whisper, to Miss Ophelia. "About the turn of the night," was the reply. Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared hurriedly from the next room. "Augustine! Cousin !-Oh!-what!" she hurriedly began. "Hush!" said St. Clair, hoarsely, "She is dying!" Mammy heard the words and flew to awaken the servants. The house was SOOL roused, lights were seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged the veranda and looked tearfully through the glass doors; but St. Clair heard and said nothing,-he saw only that look on the face of the little sleeper. "Oh, if she would only wake, and speak once more!" he said; and stooping over her, he spoke in her ear,-" Eva, darling!" The large blue eyes unclosed,-a smile passed over her face; she tried to raise her head, and speak. "Do you know me, Eva?" "Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing her arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again; and as St. Clair raised his head he saw a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face; she struggled for breath, and threw up her hands, "O God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away in agony, and ringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was doing. "Oh, Tom, my boy, it is killing me!" Tom had his master's hands between his own, and with tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help where he had always been used to look. "Pray that this may be cut short!" said St. Clair: "this wrings my heart!" "Oh, bless the Lord! it's over,-it's over, dear master!" said Tom. "Look at her." The child lay panting on her pillows as one exhausted,-and the large clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said those eyes that spoke so much of heaven? Earth was past, and earthly pain; but so solemn, so mysterious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked even the sobs of sorrow. breathless stillness. "Eva!" said St. Clair, gently. She did not hear. They pressed around her in 'Oh, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?" said her father. A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she said, brokenly, "Oh! love-joy --peace!" gave one sigh, and passed from death unto life Farewell, beloved child! the bright eternal doors have closed after thee; we shall see thy sweet face no more. Oh, woe for them who watched thy entrance into heaven, when they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of daily life, and thou gone forever! -H. B. Stowe. 66 The Secret of Death. HE is dead!" they said to him. "Come away! Over her eyes, that gazed too much, And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes- And over her bosom they crossed her hands. Come away!" they said-" God understands." And there was silence and nothing there But silence, and scents of eglantere, And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; And they said: "As a lady should lie, lies she." He lit his lamp and took the key He and she; still she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love. Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath, Is there no voice, no language, of death— "Was it the infinite wonder of all 'Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? "Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? "Did life roll back its records, dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear? 44 And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so what a wisdom love is? "There must be a pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet. "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed"I would say, though the angel of death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. "You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise— "The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring." Ah, foolish world! O most kind dead! "The utmost wonder is this: I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; "And am your angel, who was your bride, And know that, though dead, I have never died." -Edwin Arnold. T The Dance of Death. "HE warder looked down at the dead of night On the graves where the dead were sleeping, And clearly as day was the pale moonlight O'er the quiet church yard creeping. Ho, ho, for the dance!-and the phantoms outsprung, In skeleton roundel advancing, The rich and the poor, and the old and the young, And scattered them over the hillocks. They crooked their thigh bones, and they shook their long shanks, And wild was their reeling, and limber; And each bone as it crosses, it clinks and it clanks, Like the clapping of timber on timber. The warder he laughed, though his laugh was not loud; [shroud And the fiend whispered to him: "Go steal me the Of one of those skeleton dancers." He has done it! and backward with terrified glance, But one and another retiring at last, Slipped on their white garments, and outward they passed, And a hush settled over the greensward. Still one of them stumbles and tumbles along, But 'tis none of its mates that has done it this wrong, For it scents its grave-clothes in the breezes. It shakes the tower gate, but that drives it awayFor 'twas nailed o'er with crosses--a goodly array-And well it was so for the warder! It must have its shroud-it must have it betimes- And scrambles with leaps and with snatches. The warder he shook, and the warder grew pale, And gladly the shroud would have yielded! The Ghost had its clutch on the last iron rail Which the top of the watch-tower shielded, When the moon was obscured by the rush of a cloud, One! thundered the bell, and unswathed by a shroud, Down went the gaunt skeleton crashing. -Translation from Goethe, by Mrs. Martin. For All Who Die. [The following poem was regarded by Edgar A. Poe as the most beautiful and touching of its kind in our language.]—R. H. M. Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? They have one season-all are ours to die! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth--and thou art there. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death! Mrs. F. Hemans. Τ Answer To "The Hour of Death." RUE, all we know must die, Though none can tell the exact appointed hour; Nor should it cost the virtuous heart a sigh, Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the opening flower. The Christian is prepared, Though others tremble at the hour of gloom! His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom come. It matters not the time When we shall end our pilgrimage below; Whether in youth's bright morn, or manhood's prime, Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er our brow. The child has blossomed fair, And looked so lovely on its mother's breast, The source of many a hope and many a prayerWhy murmur that it sleeps when all at last may rest? Snatched from a world of woe, Where they must suffer most who longest dwell, The youth whose pulse beats high, Eager through glory's brilliant course to run- Yes! all we know must die. Since none can tell the exact appointed hour, Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson. The Collier's Dying Child. HE cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and THE mean; Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat and clean: The night was dark and stormy-the wind was blowing wild; A patient mother sat beside the death bed of her childA little worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown dim; It was a collier's only child-they called him "Little Jim." And oh to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek, As she offered up a prayer in thought !-she was afraid to speak, [life; Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself instead; She gets her answer from the child, soft falls these words from him: "Mother! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim! I have no pain, dear mother, now; but oh! I I am so dry! Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more, and, mother, do not cry!" With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his lips |