CHAPTER XXXVII. "Is she to be buried in Christian burial, that wilfully seeks her own salvation?' "I tell thee that she is! Therefore, make her grave straight. The crowner hath set on her, and finds it Christian burial.' 'Will you ha' the truth on't? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she would have been buried out of Christian burial.'" 666 "I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be HEY buried her in her purple and fine linen. They made her grave in the full sunlight, as she desired, and the Greenwood murmurs are pleasantly sounding over the spot. Peace be to the ashes of her, who had, we will hope, through suffering, found a deeper religion to soothe her last moments than that taught in human creeds! The manner of her passing away never transpired to the world. That it was sudden and terrible, and that she was gone, was all that was generally known. So she escaped the censoriousness of society, that would have loaded her name with reproach and condemnation. She dared rather approach the presence of the heavenly Father unbidden, than meet the words of opprobrium and shame from human lips. We may pity and deplore her, but it is written, "Judgment is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." And once more through the dusky and motionless past, I saw myself a child, in the old-fashioned square pew, in the meeting-house at Lealands. And the loved voice of our good pastor sounded refreshingly on my dreaming ears as it seemed to utter the merciful words of Holy Writ. Painfully my mind reverted to another life that had rushed uncalled from the shores of time, drifting out to the eternal isles;-yet it seemed like a dream far away in the ages of remotest time. These two pictures of life, with their interests, passions, chances, and pitiable failures, looked mockingly on me from out of the past. But Clotho still holds the threads within her fingers; Lachesis mercilessly twirls the swift-revolving spindle, while Atropos, with the fatal shears, cuts off the appointed measure of life. M CHAPTER XXXVIII. Y heart leaped at the postman's ring. A LETTER! dated at Florence, with a long, beautiful, enchanting picture of his home, which might be our home. Yes, from Berthold! But, in such passages as these, he has wronged me, yet unwittingly : "You have that regard for names in which those who live a superficial life indulge. But things are of more real importance than names. And do you never feel the emptiness of the mere conventionalities of life? Is there not something higher, better, freer, which the immortal soul thirsts after? Yet the coward heart puts by the cup, blaming the hand that holds it. Emile, without you there is for me no future! Be courageous for my sake; for, in reality, those social laws can claim no strict allegiance from you. * * * "Oh that I had hope, or will, strong enough to bid you 'come,' feeling sure that my will would be your law! You are waging a stern war with unrelenting fortune. Yet you would die, sooner than permit my interference. Is this kind? * * "A home is open to receive you. Yet you stand on that cold northern shore, shiveringly, ready to fling yourself into the ocean, rather than the fond arms stretched to receive you. Forgive me, if I speak too strongly." This letter greatly disquieted me. Should I drink the costly wine of life that he had held out to me? Should I sit with him amid the shade of clustering vines and ripening fruits, beneath that ardent southern sun? No, no, my heart! Embrace the cross; and, though tired with the conflict, yield not! So I answered him in this wise: "While I am armed with this strong resolution to hold myself firm against the sweet temptations and alluring pictures presented to me, then only am I worthy of your great and true heart. Only while |