is peace."

Shine on, setting sun. Sing on, falling water. There is no peace save in
death and in heaven. Sing on, little birds, throw your sweet shadows,
dewy nights; there is no peace but in death.

She lay down on the green bank and the water foaming by sung to her--it
was all so sweet, so silent, so still. One by one the little birds
slept, one by one the flowers closed their eyes, the roseate clouds
faded, and the gray, soft mantle of night fell on the earth.

So sweet and still--the stars came out in the sky, in the wood a
nightingale began to sing; the fire went out in her brain; the pain
ceased; she grew calm as one on whom a dread shadow lies.

The lovely, laughing water, with the gleam of golden stars in it,
falling with the rhythm of sweetest music. She drew nearer, she laid one
hand on the little wavelets, and the cool, sweet touch refreshed her.

The night, so sweet and still, with the gray shade of the king of
terrors rising from the mill-stream. The water-lilies seemed to rise and
come near to her, a thousand sweet voices seemed to rise from the water
and call her.

"There alone is peace," sung the nightingale; "There alone is peace,"
sung the lilies; "There alone is peace," sung the chiming waters. She
drew nearer to them. Heaven only knows what ideas were in that
overbalanced brain and distraught mind. Looking in the clear waters she
saw the golden stars shining; perhaps she thought she was reaching to
them. A little low cry fell on the night air. A cry that startled the
ring-doves, but fell on no mortal ear.

"Mine was always a mad love," she said to herself; "a mad love," and the
voice that had gladdened the hearts of thousands was heard on earth no
more.

A mad love, indeed; she went nearer to the gleaming waters; they seemed
to rise and infold her; the water-lilies seemed to hold her up. It
seemed to her rather that she went up to the stars than down to the
stream. There was no cry, no sound, as the soft waters closed over her,
as the water-lilies floated back entangled in the meshes of a dead
woman's hair.

In the grave alone was peace. So she lay through the long, sweet, summer
night, and the mill-stream sung her dirge.

Was it suicide, or was she mad? God who knows all things knew that she
had suffered a heavy wrong, a cruel injustice, a martyrdom of pain. She
had raised herself to one of the highest positions in the world and
there she had met her old love.

Only Heaven knew what s