Who could doubt that _she_ had learned the lesson, when from the ruins
of the perishable body the imperishable soul rose steadfast and serene,
proving that after the long bewilderment of life and love it had
attained the eternal peace.

The room grew very still, and while those about her pondered her words
with natural tears, Sylvia lay looking up at a lovely picture that
seemed leaning down to offer her again the happiest memory of her youth.
It was a painting of the moonlight voyage down the river. Mark had given
it that day, and now when the longer, sadder voyage was nearly over, she
regarded it with a tender pleasure. The moon shone full on Warwick,
looking out straight and strong before him with the vigilant expression
native to his face; a fit helmsman to guide the boat along that rapid
stream. Mark seemed pausing to watch the oars silvered by the light, and
their reflections wavy with the current. Moor, seen in shadow, leaned
upon his hand, as if watching Sylvia, a quiet figure, full of grace and
color, couched under the green arch. On either hand the summer woods
made vernal gloom, behind the cliffs rose sharply up against the blue,
and all before wound a shining road, along which the boat seemed
floating like a bird on slender wings between two skies.

So long she lay forgetful of herself and all about her, that Moor saw
she needed rest, for the breath fluttered on her lips, the flowers had
fallen one by one, and her face wore the weary yet happy look of some
patient child waiting for its lullaby.

"Dear, you have talked enough; let me take you up now, lest the
pleasant day be spoiled by a sleepless night."

"I am ready, yet I love to stay among you all, for in my sleep I seem to
drift so far away I never quite come back. Good night, good night; I
shall see you in the morning."

With a smile, a kiss for all, they saw her fold her arms about her
husband's neck, and lay down her head as if she never cared to lift it
up again. The little journey was both a pleasure and pain to them, for
each night the way seemed longer to Sylvia, and though the burden
lightened the bearer grew more heavy-hearted. It was a silent passage
now, for neither spoke, except when one asked tenderly, "Are you easy,
love?" and the other answered, with a breath that chilled his cheek,
"Quite happy, quite content."

So, cradled on the heart that loved her best, Sylvia was gently carried
to the end of her short pilgrimage, and when her