f the moon-beams, while
the only sound was the crackling branches as the breeze whirred the snow
flakes from them--the moon sailed high and unclouded in the interminable
ether, while the shadow of the cottage lay black on the garden behind. I
entered this by the open wicket, and anxiously examined each window. At
length I detected a ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one
of the upper rooms--it was a novel feeling, alas! to look at any house
and say there dwells its usual inmate--the door of the house was merely
on the latch: so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase. The door of
the inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw Lucy sitting as at work at
the table on which the light stood; the implements of needlework were about
her, but her hand had fallen on her lap, and her eyes, fixed on the ground,
shewed by their vacancy that her thoughts wandered. Traces of care and
watching had diminished her former attractions--but her simple dress and
cap, her desponding attitude, and the single candle that cast its light
upon her, gave for a moment a picturesque grouping to the whole. A fearful
reality recalled me from the thought--a figure lay stretched on the bed
covered by a sheet--her mother was dead, and Lucy, apart from all the
world, deserted and alone, watched beside the corpse during the weary
night. I entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at first drew a
scream from the lone survivor of a dead nation; but she recognised me, and
recovered herself, with the quick exercise of self-control habitual to her.
"Did you not expect me?" I asked, in that low voice which the presence of
the dead makes us as it were instinctively assume.

"You are very good," replied she, "to have come yourself; I can never thank
you sufficiently; but it is too late."

"Too late," cried I, "what do you mean? It is not too late to take you from
this deserted place, and conduct you to---"

My own loss, which I had forgotten as I spoke, now made me turn away, while
choking grief impeded my speech. I threw open the window, and looked on the
cold, waning, ghastly, misshaped circle on high, and the chill white earth
beneath--did the spirit of sweet Idris sail along the moon-frozen crystal
air?--No, no, a more genial atmosphere, a lovelier habitation was surely
hers!

I indulged in this meditation for a moment, and then again addressed the
mourner, who stood leaning against the bed with that expression of resigned
despa