“Many may think me young to die,” Grace observed; “but I am weary of the world.  It is my wish to submit myself to the will of God; but, blessed be his holy name, that he sees fit to call me to him this day.  Lucy, beloved one—­go into the next room, and draw the curtain asunder; I shall then be enabled to gaze on the fields of dear Clawbonny once more; that will be my last look at the outer world.”

This leave-taking of inanimate things, objects long known and loved, is of frequent occurrence with the dying.  It is not in our natures to quit for ever this beautiful world, without casting “one longing, lingering look behind.”  The hand of its divine Creator was gloriously impressed on the rural loveliness of my native fields that day, and a holy tranquillity seemed to reign over the grain, the orchards, the meadows, and the wooded heights.  The couch of Grace was purposely placed at a point in her own chamber that commanded a wide view of the farm, through the vista formed by the door and windows of the adjoining room.  Here she had often sat, during her confinement to her rooms, contemplating scenes so familiar and so much loved.  I saw her lips quiver as she now gazed on them for the last time, and was convinced some unusual sentiment, connected with the past, pressed on her feelings at that instant.  I could see the same view myself, and perceived that her eyes were riveted on the little wood where Rupert and I had met the girls on our return from sea; a favourite place of resort, and one that, I doubted not, had often been the witness of the early confidence between Grace and her recreant lover.  Death was actually hovering over that sainted being at the moment; but her woman’s heart was not, could not, be insensible to the impressions produced by such a sight.  In vain the warm light from the heavens bathed the whole landscape in a flood of glory; in vain the meadows put forth their flowers, the woods their variegated, bright, American verdure, and the birds their innocent gaiety and brilliant plumage; the fancy of Grace was portraying scenes that had once been connected with the engrossing sentiment of her life.  I felt her tremble, as she lay in my arms; and bending my head towards her in tender concern, I could just distinguish the murmuring of a prayer that it was easy to understand was a petition offered up in behalf of Rupert.  This done, she asked, herself, to have the curtain drawn again, to shut out the obtrusive thought for ever.

I have often thought, since the events of that sad day that Grace’s dissolution was hastened by this accidental recurrence of her mind to Rupert and his forgotten love.  I call it love, though I question if a being so thoroughly selfish ever truly loved any one but himself; perhaps not himself, indeed, in a way to entitle the feeling to so respectable an epithet.  Grace certainly drooped the faster from that unfortunate moment.  It is true, we all expected her death, thought it would occur that day even, though surprised at the suddenness with which it came at last; but we did not expect it within an hour.