any
hours.

A fearful communing with himself took place that night. He was
a calm and a stern man; but bursts of passion shook his frame,
and terrible words sprung from his lips, in the solitude of
that night's watch; and tears, those dreadful tears which
nothing but agony wrings from manhood's eye, fell on the pages
before him. Who can tell what he suffered?--who can tell how
he struggled? what curses rose to his lips?--what mental
prayers recalled them?--what fierce anger burned within
him?--what returning tenderness overcame him?

At seven o'clock the following morning, an express from
Elmsley brought the intelligence of Henry Lovell's death. An
hour afterwards Edward Middleton was on his way to the
cathedral town of--.

It was on a mild day, as the sun was shining brightly on the
leafless groves of Hillscombe, its slanting rays gilding the
lawn on which the house stood, that a carriage drove slowly up
the avenue. When it stopped at the door, and the step was let
down, Edward Middleton sprang out, lifted his wife in his
arms, and carried her into the library.

Once before, a few months ago, he had led her into that room
his bride--his idol--his flower of beauty--the pride of his
soul. Now, he had brought her back to it to die--for there was
death in that marble forehead; death in those painfully bright
eyes; death in those transparent hands which held his; in that
hollow voice, which murmured, as he laid that weak frame and
weary head on the pillowed couch--"Home, home once more!"

He had sought her--he had found her dying--he had taken her in
his arms--he had pressed upon her fevered lips such kisses as
their hours of hope and of joy had never known--he had hoped
against hope. When she had clasped her thin weak arms round
his neck, and whispered, "Take me home, Edward, to die;" he
had answered in the words of Scripture, "Thou Shalt not die,
but live!"

And, verily, in her deep love's excess, she found a short
renewal of life. She gathered strength to rise from her bed of
weakness and of pain, and, with her head on his bosom, and her
hand in his, to breathe again the free air of Heaven, and gaze
with a languid eye on those beauties of earth and sky, which
have such a deep meaning, such a strange effect, on those who
are about to die.

For she must die!--she feels it--she knows it--but not as once
she thought to die; unreconciled to God, unforgiven by man.
Her weary pilgrimage is drawing to a close; but