his; there was no breath to be either heard or felt, and the mouth was like ice. With a sudden, a desperate effort, she freed her hand, from which her uncle's instantly dropped on the bedside, with a noise, slight indeed, but, to her ears, like thunder; she flung open the curtains-again the light came full into the roomand looked on a face which both those who have not, and those who have before seen, alike. know to be the face of death.

CHAPTER II.

"And the presence of death was in the house, and the shadows of the grave rested upon it."

"You had far better, Emily, go to bed, and take a little hot wine and water-the nurse can sit up. What," in a lower tone," is she here for?"

"I cannot-indeed I cannot," was the an

swer.

"Well, you always were obstinate;" and Mrs. Arundel took her own advice, viz. the hot wine and water, and the going to bed, leaving Emily to that sad and solemn watch the living keep by the dead.

A week had now elapsed; and let even the most indifferent-those linked to the dead by no ties of love or kindred- say what such a week is. The darkened windows-the empty rooms, whose very furniture looks unfamiliar in

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the dim, excluded light-the stealthy steps, the whispering voices-faces with a strange, because necessary, gravity-and, whether it be those bowed down with real affliction, or those whose only feeling can be the general awe of death, all differing from their ordinary selves. And, with one of life's most usual, yet most painful contrasts—while the persons are so much changed, yet the things remain the same. The favourite chair, never to be filled again by its late occupier-the vacant place at table—a picture, perhaps now with more of life than its original-the thousand trifles that recall some taste or habit-and all these things so much more deeply felt when no long illness has already thrown events out of their usual circle, already broken in upon all old accustomed ways. When he who is now departed was amongst us but yesterday when there has been, as it were, but a step from the fireside to the deathbed-a surprise and a shock add to the sorrow which takes us so unawares. And then the common events that fill up the day in domestic life-the provision for the living made in the presence of the dead; in one room a dinner, in the other a coffin that strange mixture of ordinary occurrence

and unusual situation. And yet 'tis well:make that week the gloomiest we can

ex

clude the glad daylight—silence the human, voice and step-yet how soon, amid the afterhurry and selfishness of life, will that brief space of mourning be forgotten! There is wisdom in even the exaggeration of griefthere is little cause to fear we should feel too much.

It was nearly one o'clock when Emily began her solitary watch; and as the last sound died along the passage, her heart died within her too. Who shall account for the cold, creeping sensation that, in the depth of the night, steals over us? Who is there that has not felt that vague, but strong terror, which induces us-to use a childish, but expressive phrase-to hide our head under the bedclothes, as if there was some appearance which to look for was to see?—when we ourselves could give no definite cause for our fear, which our reason at the very moment tells us is folly, and tells us so in vain.

Even grief gave way before this sensation in Emily. She had said to herself that she would pray by the dead-take a long, last gaze on features so dear; and now she was rivetted to

her chair by a creeping terror, perhaps worse for having no ostensible cause. The arm-chair where she sat seemed a protection; what did, what could she dread in moving from it? She knew not, but she did dread. Her sight seemed to fail her as she looked round the vast dim room: the old painted ceiling appeared a mass of moving and hideous faces-the huge faded red curtains had, as it were, some unnatural motion, as if some appalling shape were behindand the coffin-the unclosed coffin-left unclosed at her earnest prayer-her limbs refused to bear her towards it, and her three hours' vigil passed in mute terror rather than affliction. Suddenly a shadow fell before her-and not if life had depended on its suppression, could Emily have checked the scream that rose to her lips it was only the nurse, who, her own sleep over, was to share the few hours that yet remained. The relief of a human face-the sound of a human voice-Emily felt absolutely grateful for the old woman's company. It was oppressively hot, and the nurse, drawing back the heavy curtains, opened one of the windows. Though the shutters still remained closed, a gleam of daylight came warm and crimson through each chink and crevice" and it has