at it was but a
piece of sad civility to invite him upstairs to see the poor dead
body, which she had laid out and decked for the grave, with such fond
care that she had grown strangely proud of its marble beauty.

Mr Donne was glad enough of any proposal of a change from the
cold and comfortless room where he had thought uneasy, remorseful
thoughts. He fancied that a change of place would banish the train of
reflection that was troubling him; but the change he anticipated was
to a well-warmed, cheerful sitting-room, with signs of life, and a
bright fire therein; and he was on the last flight of stairs,--at the
door of the room where Ruth lay--before he understood whither Sally
was conducting him. He shrank back for an instant, and then a strange
sting of curiosity impelled him on. He stood in the humble low-roofed
attic, the window open, and the tops of the distant snow-covered
hills filling up the whiteness of the general aspect. He muffled
himself up in his cloak, and shuddered, while Sally reverently drew
down the sheet, and showed the beautiful, calm, still face, on which
the last rapturous smile still lingered, giving an ineffable look
of bright serenity. Her arms were crossed over her breast; the
wimple-like cap marked the perfect oval of her face, while two braids
of the waving auburn hair peeped out of the narrow border, and lay on
the delicate cheeks.

He was awed into admiration by the wonderful beauty of that dead
woman.

"How beautiful she is!" said he, beneath his breath. "Do all dead
people look so peaceful--so happy?"

"Not all," replied Sally, crying. "Few has been as good and as gentle
as she was in their lives." She quite shook with her sobbing.

Mr Donne was disturbed by her distress.

"Come, my good woman! we must all die--" he did not know what to say,
and was becoming infected by her sorrow. "I am sure you loved her
very much, and were very kind to her in her lifetime; you must take
this from me to buy yourself some remembrance of her." He had pulled
out a sovereign, and really had a kindly desire to console her, and
reward her, in offering it to her.

But she took her apron from her eyes, as soon as she became aware of
what he was doing, and, still holding it midway in her hands, she
looked at him indignantly, before she burst out:

"And who are you, that think to pay for my kindness to her by money?
And I was not kind to you, my darling," said she, passionately
addressing the motionle