A REVELATION—DEATH THE PEACEFUL ANGEL—CALMNESS.

Months passed by after the events told in the last chapter—passed, I scarce know how. They have told me that I wandered about like one in the mazes of a troubled dream. My reason was disturbed. I've no distinct idea how the days or weeks were employed. Vague remembrances of kindly words, music, odorous flowers, and a trip to a beautiful, quiet country-house, I sometimes have; but 'tis all so misty and dream-like, that I can form no tangible idea of it. So this period has almost faded out of mind, and is like lost pages from the chronicle of life.

When the winter was far spent, and during the snowy days of February, my mind began to collect its shattered forces. The approach of another trouble brought back consciousness with rekindled vigor.

One day I became aware that Miss Nancy was very ill. It seemed as if a thick vapor, like a breath-stain on glass, had suddenly been wiped away from my mind; and I saw clearly. There lay Miss Nancy upon her bed, appallingly white, with her large eyes sunken deeply in their sockets, and her lips purple as an autumn leaf. Her thin, white hand, with discolored nails, was thrown upon the covering, and aroused my alarm. I rushed to her, fearing that the vital spark no longer animated that loved and once lovely frame.

"Miss Nancy, dear Miss Nancy," I cried, "speak to me, only one word."

She started nervously, "Oh, who are you? Ah, Ann—is it Ann?"

"Yes, dear Miss Nancy, it is I. It appears as though a film had been removed from my eyes, and I see how selfish I have been. You have suffered for my attention. What has been the matter with me?"

"Oh, dear child, a fearful dispensation of Providence was sent you; and from the chastisement you are about recovering. Thank God, that you are still the mistress of your reason! For its safety, I often trembled. I did all for you that I could; but I was fearful that human skill would be of no avail."

"Thanks, my kind friend, and sorry I am for all the anxiety and uneasiness that I have given you."

"Oh, I am repaid, or rather was pre-paid for all and more, you were so kind to me."

Here Biddy entered, and I took down the Bible and read a few chapters from the book of Job.

"What a comfort that book is to us," said Biddy. "Many's the time, Ann, that Miss Nancy read it to you, when you'd sit an' look so wandering-like; but you are well now, Ann, an' all will be right with us."

"All can never be, Biddy, as once it was," and I shook my head.

"Oh, don't spake of it," and she wiped her moist eyes with her apron.

Days and weeks passed on thus smoothly, during which time Louise came often to see us; but the fatal sorrow was never alluded to. By common consent all avoided it.

Daily, hourly, Miss Nancy's health sank. I never saw the footsteps of the grim monster approach more rapidly than in her case. The wasting of her cheek was like the eating of a worm at the heart of a rose.

Her bed was wheeled close to the fire, and I read, all the pleasant mornings, some cheerful book to her.

Her brother came often, and sat with her through the evenings. Many of her friends and neighbors offered to watch with her at night; but she bade me decline all such kindness.

"You and Biddy are enough. I want no others. Let me die calmly, in the presence of, my own household, with no unusual faces around," she said in a low tone.

She talked about her death as though it were some long journey upon which she was about starting; gave directions how she should be shrouded; what kind of coffin we must get, tomb-stone, &c. She enjoined that we inscribe nothing but her age and name upon the tomb-stone.

"I wish no ostentatious slab, no false eulogium; my name and age are all the epitaph I deserve, and all that I will have."

Several ministers came to see her, and held prayer. She received them kindly, and spoke at length with some.

"I shall meet the great change with resignation. I had hoped, Ann, to see you well settled somewhere in the North; but that will be denied me. In my will, I have remembered both you and Biddy. I have no parting advice for either of you; for you are both, though of different faith, consistent Christians. I hope we shall meet hereafter. You must not weep, girls, for it pains me to think I leave you troubled."

When Biddy withdrew, she called me to her, saying,

"Ann, I am feeble, draw near the bed whilst I talk to you. I hold here in my hand a letter from my nephew, Robert Worth."

"Robert Worth? Why I—"

"Yes, he says that he was at Mr. Peterkin's and remembers you well. He also speaks of Emily Bradly, who is now in Boston; says that she recollects you well, and is pleased to hear of your good fortune. Robert is the son of my elder sister, who is now deceased; a favorite he always was of mine. He read law in Mr. Trueman's office, and has a very successful practice at the Boston bar. Long time ago, Ann, when I was a young, blooming girl, my sister Lydia (Robert's mother) and I were at school at a very celebrated academy in the North. During one of our vacations, when we were on a visit to Boston—for we were country girls—we were introduced to two young barristers, William Worth and Justinian Trueman. They were strong personal friends.

"The former became much attached to my sister, and came frequently to see her. Justinian Trueman came also. By the force of circumstance, Mr. Trueman and I were thrown much together. From his lofty conversation and noble principles, I gained great advantage. I loved to listen to his candid avowal of free, democratic principles. How bravely he set aside conventionality and empty forms; he was a searcher after the soul of things! He was the very essence of honor, always ready to sacrifice himself for others, and daily and hourly crucified his heart!

"Chance threw us much together, as I have said. You may infer what ensued. Two persons so similar in nature, so united in purpose (though he was vastly my superior), could not associate much and long together without a feeling of love springing up! Our case did not differ from that of others. We loved. Not as the careless or ordinary love; but with a fervor, a depth of passion, and a concentration of soul, which nothing in life could destroy.

"My sister was the chosen bride of William Worth. This fact was known to all the household. Justinian and I read in each other's manner the secret of the heart.

"At length, in one brief hour, he told me his story; he was the only child of a widowed mother, who had spent her all upon his education. Whilst he was away, her wants had been tenderly ministered to by a very lovely young girl of wealth and social position. Upon her death-bed his mother besought him to marry this lady. He was then inflamed with gratitude, and, being free in heart, he mistook the nature of his feelings. Whilst in this state of mind, he offered himself to her and was instantly accepted. Afterwards when we met he understood how he had been beguiled!

"He wrote to his betrothed, told her the state of his feelings, that he loved another; but declared his willingness to redeem his promise, and stand by his engagement if she wished.

"How anxiously we both awaited her reply! It came promptly, and she desired, nay demanded, the fulfilment of the engagement; even reminded him of his promise to his mother, and of the obligation he was under to herself.

"No tongue can describe the agony that we both endured; yet principle must be obeyed. We parted. They were married. Twice afterwards I saw him. He was actively engaged in his profession; but the pale cheek and earnest look told me that he still thought lovingly of me! My sister married William Worth, and resided in Boston; but her husband died early in life, leaving his only child Robert to the care of Mr. Trueman. After my mother's death, possessing myself of my patrimony, I removed west, to this city, where my brother lived. I had been separated from him for a number of years, and was surprised to find how entirely a Southern residence had changed him. Owing to some little domestic difficulties, I declined remaining in his family.

"Last winter, when Justinian Trueman was here, I was out of the city; and it was well that I was, for I could not have met him again. Old feelings, that should be cradled to rest, would have been aroused! My brother saw him, and told me that he looked well.

"Now, is it not strange that you should have been an object of such especial interest to both of us? It seems as though you were a centre around which we were once more re-united. I have written him a long letter, which I wish you to deliver upon your arrival in Boston." Here she drew from the portfolio that was lying on the bed beside her, a sealed letter, directed to Justinian Trueman, Boston, Mass.

I was weeping violently when I took it from her.

She lingered thus for several weeks, and on a calm Sabbath morning, as I was reading to her from the Bible, she said to me—

"Ann, I am sleepy; my eyelids are closing; turn me over."

As I attempted to do it she pressed my hand tightly, straightened her body out, and the last struggle was over! I was alone with her. Laying her gently upon the pillow, I for the first time in my life pressed my lips to that cold, marble brow. I felt that she, holy saint, would not object to it, were she able to speak. I then called Biddy in to assist me. She was loud in her lamentation.

"She bade us not weep for her, Biddy. She is happier now;" but, though I spoke this in a composed tone, my heart was all astir with emotion.

Soon her brother came in, bringing with him a minister. He received the mournful intelligence with subdued grief.

We robed her for Death's bridal, e'en as she had requested, in white silk, flannel, and white gloves. Her coffin was plain mahogony, with a plate upon the top, upon which were engraved her name, age, and birth-place.

A funeral sermon was preached, by a minister who had been a strong personal friend. In a retired portion of the public burial-ground we made her last bed. A simple tombstone, as she directed, was placed over the grave, her name, age, &c., inscribed thereon.

Bridget and I slept in the same house that night. We could not be persuaded to leave it, and there, in Miss Nancy's dear, familiar room, we held, as usual, family devotion. I almost fancied that she stood in the midst, and was gazing well-pleased upon us.

That night I slept profoundly. My rest had been broken a great deal, and now the knowledge that duty did not keep me awake, enabled me to sleep well.

On the next day Mr. Worth arrived, and was much distressed to find that he was too late to see his aunt alive.

Though he looked older and more serious than when I last saw him, I readily recognized the same noble expression of face. He received me very kindly, and thanked Biddy and me for our attentions to his beloved aunt. He showed us a letter she had written, in which she spoke of us in the kindest manner, and recommended us to his care.

"Neither of you shall ever lack for friendship whilst I live," he said, as he warmly shook us by the hands.

He told me that he had ever retained a vivid recollection of my sad face; and inquired about "young Master." When I told him that he was dead, and gave an account of his life and sufferings, Mr. Worth remarked—

"Ah, yes, he was one of heaven's angels, lent us only for a short season."

I accompanied him to his aunt's grave.

* * * * * *

Upon the reading of the will, it was discovered that Miss Nancy had liberated me, and left me, as a legacy, four thousand dollars, with the request that I would live somewhere in the North. To Biddy she had left a bequest of three thousand dollars; the remainder of her fortune, after making a donation to her brother, was left to her nephew, Robert Worth.

The will was instantly carried into effect; as it met with no opposition, and she owed no debts, matters were arranged satisfactorily; and we prepared for departure.

Louise had made all her arrangements to go with us. I was now a free woman, in the possession of a comparative fortune; yet I was not happy. Alas! I had out-lived all for which money and freedom were valuable, and I cared not how the remainder of my days were spent. Why cannot the means of happiness come to us when we have the capacity for enjoyment?

On the evening before our departure, I called Louise to me and asked,

"Where is Henry's grave?" It was the first time since that fatal day that I had mentioned his name to her.

"He is buried far away, in a plain, unmarked grave; but, even if it were near, you should not go," she replied.

"Tell me, who found him, after—after—after the murder?"

"Mr. Graham and Atkins went in search of him, and I followed them; though he had told me what he was going to do, Ann, I could not oppose or even dissuade him."

I wept freely; and, as is always the case, was relieved by it.

"I am glad to see that you can weep. It will do you good," said Louise.