t came, when all was hushed without, and the silence within was
broken only by the cricket's chirp, when the lone watcher, the faithful
old slave, sat beside the cold, shrouded figure, when the dim light of
the chamber of death seemed mingling with the shadows of departed souls,
there appeared in the room, like a vision, the tall figure of a female,
wrapped in a dark mantle. Slowly and noiselessly she stole to the side
of the deceased, stood motionless and statue-like for several minutes,
her eyes fixed in mute contemplation on the face of the corpse. The
watcher looked and started back, still the figure remained motionless.
Raising her right hand to her chin, pensively, she lifted her eyes
heavenward, and in that silent appeal, in those dewy tears that
glistened in her great orbs, in those words that seemed freezing to her
quivering lips, the fierce struggle waging in that bosom was told. She
heard the words, "You cannot redeem me now!" knelling in her ears, her
thoughts flashed back over years of remorse, to the day of her error,
and she saw rising up as it were before her, like a spectre from the
tomb, seeking retribution, the image of the child she had sacrificed to
her vanity. She pressed and pressed the cold hand, so delicate, so like
her own; she unbared the round, snowy arm, and there beheld the
imprinted hearts, and the broken anchor! Her pent-up grief then burst
its bounds, the tears rolled down her cheeks, her lips quivered, her
hand trembled, and her very blood seemed as ice in her veins. She cast a
hurried glance round the room, a calm and serene smile seemed lighting
up the features of the lifeless woman, and she bent over her, and kissed
and kissed her cold, marble-like brow, and bathed it with her burning
tears. It was a last sad offering; and having bestowed it, she turned
slowly away, and disappeared. It was Madame Montford, who came a day too
late to save the storm-tossed girl, but returned to think of the
hereafter of her own soul.

CHAPTER XLV.

ANOTHER SHADE OF THE PICTURE.

While the earth of Potter's Field is closing over all that remains of
Anna Bonard, Maria McArthur may be seen, snatching a moment of rest, as
it were, seated under the shade of a tree on the Battery, musing, as is
her wont. The ships sail by cheerily, there is a touching beauty about
the landscape before her, all nature seems glad. Even the heavens smile
serenely; and a genial warmth breathes through the soft air. "Tr