Then all at once rose the clear sound of the girls’ voices, in the sweet, sad melody of a funeral hymn,—­one of those which Elsie had marked, as if prophetically, among her own favorites.

And so they laid her in the earth, and showered down flowers upon her, and filled her grave, and covered it with green sods.  By the side of it was another oblong ridge, with a white stone standing at its head.  Mr. Bernard looked upon it, as he came close to the place where Elsie was laid, and read the inscription,—­

  CATALINA

  WIFE TO DUDLEY VENNER

  DIED

  OCTOBER 13TH 1840

  AGED XX YEARS.

A gentle rain fell on the turf after it was laid.  This was the beginning of a long and dreary autumnal storm, a deferred “equinoctial,” as many considered it.  The mountain-streams were all swollen and turbulent, and the steep declivities were furrowed in every direction by new channels.  It made the house seem doubly desolate to hear the wind howling and the rain beating upon the roofs.  The poor relation who was staying at the house would insist on Helen’s remaining a few days:  Old Sophy was in such a condition, that it kept her in continual anxiety and there were many cares which Helen could take off from her.

The old black woman’s life was buried in her darling’s grave.  She did nothing but moan and lament for her.  At night she was restless, and would get up and wander to Elsie’s apartment and look for her and call her by name.  At other times she would lie awake and listen to the wind and the rain,—­sometimes with such a wild look upon her face, and with such sudden starts and exclamations, that it seemed, as if she heard spirit-voices and were answering the whispers of unseen visitants.  With all this were mingled hints of her old superstition,—­forebodings of something fearful about to happen,—­perhaps the great final catastrophe of all things, according to the prediction current in the kitchens of Rockland.

“Hark!” Old Sophy would say,—­“don’ you hear th’ crackin’ ‘n’ th’ snappin’ up in ‘Th’ Mountain, ‘n’ th’ rollin’ o’ th’ big stones?  The’ ’s somethin’ stirrin’ among th’ rocks; I hear th’ soun’ of it in th’ night, when th’ wind has stopped blowin’.  Oh, stay by me a little while, Miss Darlin’! stay by me! for it’s th’ Las’ Day, may be, that’s close on us, ‘n’ I feel as if I couldn’ meet th’ Lord all alone!”

It was curious,—­but Helen did certainly recognize sounds, during the lull of the storm, which were not of falling rain or running streams, —­short snapping sounds, as of tense cords breaking,—­long uneven sounds, as of masses rolling down steep declivities.  But the morning came as usual; and as the others said nothing of these singular noises, Helen did not think it necessary to speak of them.  All day long she and the humble relative of Elsie’s mother, who had appeared, as poor relations are wont to in the great crises of life, were busy in arranging the disordered house, and looking over the various objects which Elsie’s singular tastes had brought together, to dispose of them as her father might direct.  They all met together at the usual hour for tea.  One of the servants came in, looking very blank, and said to the poor relation,—­