iamonds, glittering in the moonbeams. The ground was partially covered
with snow, but where it lay bare, it was powdered with diamond dust. A
silvery net-work was drawn over the windows, save one clear spot, which
her melting breath had made. She looked up to the moon, shining so high,
so lone on the pale azure of a wintry heaven, and felt an impulse to
kneel down and worship it, as the loveliest, holiest image of the
Creator's goodness and love. How tranquil, how serene, how soft, yet
glorious it shone forth from the still depths of ether! What a divine
melancholy it diffused over the sleeping earth! Helen felt as she often
did when looking up into the eyes of Arthur Hazleton. So tranquil, so
serene, yet so glorious were their beams to her, and so silently and
holily did they sink into the soul.

In the morning the young doctor found his patient in the same feeble,
slumberous state. There was no apparent change either for better or
worse, and he thought it probable she might linger days and even weeks,
gradually sinking, till she slept the last great sleep.

"You look weary and languid, Helen," said he, anxiously regarding the
young watcher, "I hope nothing disturbed your lonely vigils. I
endeavored to return, that I might relieve you, in some measure, of your
fatiguing duty, but was detained the whole night."

Helen thought of the terror she had suffered from Clinton's intrusion,
but she did not like to speak of it. Perhaps he had already left the
neighborhood, and it seemed ungenerous and useless to betray him.

"I certainly had no ghostly visitors," said she, "and what is more, I
did not fear them. All unreal phantasies fled before that sad reality,"
looking on the wan features of Miss Thusa.

"I see you have profited by the discipline of the last twelve hours,"
cried Arthur, "and it was most severe, for one of your temperament and
early habits. I have heard it said," he added, thoughtfully, "that those
who follow my profession, become callous and indifferent to human
suffering--that their nerves are steeled, and their hearts
indurated--but I do not find it the case with me; I never approach the
bedside of the sick and the dying without deep and solemn emotion. I
feel nearer the grave, nearer to Heaven and God."

"No--I am sure it cannot be said of you," said Helen, earnestly, "you
are always kind and sympathizing--quick to relieve, and slow to inflict
pain."

"Ah, Helen, you forget how cruel I was in forcing