nd turning back the
sheet, exposed the venerable features composed into everlasting repose.
Helen did not recoil or tremble as she gazed. She even hushed her sobs,
as if fearing to ruffle the inexpressible placidity of that dreamless
rest. Every trace of harshness was removed from the countenance, and a
serene melancholy reigned in its stead. A smile far more gentle than she
ever wore in life, lingered on the wan and frozen lips.

"How benign she looks," ejaculated Helen, "how happy! I could gaze
forever on that peaceful, silent face--and yet I once thought death so
terrible."

"Life is far more fearful, Helen. Life, with all its feverish unrest,
its sinful strife, its storms of passion and its waves of sorrow. Oh,
had you beheld the scene which I last night witnessed in this very
room--a scene in which life revelled in wildest power, you would tremble
at the thought of possessing a vitality capable of such unholy
excitement--you would envy the quietude of that unbreathing bosom."

"And yet," said Helen, "I have often heard you speak of life as an
inestimable, a glorious gift, as so rich a blessing that the single
heart had not room to contain the gratitude due."

"And so it is, Helen, if rightly used. I am wrong to give it so dark a
coloring--ungrateful, because my own experience is bright beyond the
common lot--unwise, for I should not sadden your views by anticipation.
Yes, if life is fearful from its responsibilities, it _is_ glorious in
its hopes and rich in its joys. Its mysteries only increase its
grandeur, and prove its divine origin."

Thus Arthur continued to talk to Helen, sustaining and elevating her
thoughts, till she forgot that she came in sorrow and tears.

There was another, who came, when he thought none was near, to pay the
last tribute of sorrow over the remains of Miss Thusa, and that was
Louis. He thought of his last interview with her, and her last words
reverberated in his ear in the silence of that lonely room--"In the name
of your mother in Heaven, go and sin no more."

Louis sunk upon his knees by that cold and voiceless form, and vowed, in
the strength of the Lord, to obey her parting injunction. He could never
now repay the debt he owed, but he could do more--he could be just to
himself and the memory of her who had opened her lips wisely to reprove,
and her hand kindly to relieve.

Peace be to thee, ancient sibyl, lonely dweller of the old gray cottage.
No more shall thy busy finge