memories of their happy, innocent, childhood, of all his love for her—­that had he been but spared, all the last year’s misery might have been averted, for she would have loved him, ay, even as he loved her; and he would have guarded, saved—­so overpowered her, that she had sunk down upon the senseless earth which covered him, conscious only of the wild, sickly longing, like him to flee away and be at rest.  She had reached her home; exertion no longer needed, the unnatural strength, ebbed fast, and the frail tenement withered, hour by hour, away.  And how might Julien mourn!  Her work on earth was done.  Young, tried, frail as she was, she had been permitted to show forth the glory, the sustaining glory, of her faith, by a sacrifice whose magnitude was indeed apparent, but whose depth and intensity of suffering, none knew but Him for whom it had been made.  She had been preserved from the crime—­if possible more fearful in the mind of the Hebrew than any other—­apostacy:  and though the first conviction, that she was indeed “passing away” even from his affection, was fraught with absolute anguish, yet her uncle could not, dared not pray for life on earth.  And in the peace, the calm, the depth, of quietude which gradually sunk on her heart, infusing her every word and look and gentle smile, it was as if her spirit had already the foretaste of that blissful heaven for which its wings were plumed.  As the frame dwindled, the expression of her sweet face became more and more unearthly in its exquisite beauty, the mind more and more beatified, and the heart more freed from earthly feeling.  The reward of her constancy appeared in part bestowed on earth, for death itself was revealed to her—­not as the King of Terrors, but as an Angel of Light, at whose touch the lingering raiment of mortality would dissolve, and the freed soul spring up rejoicing to its home.

It was the Feast of the Tabernacle and the Sabbath eve.  The tent—­formed of branches of thick trees and fragrant shrubs—­was erected, as we have seen it in a former page, a short distance from the temple.  Marie’s taste had once again, been consulted in its decorations; her hand, feeble as it was, had twined the lovely wreaths of luscious flowers and arranged the glowing fruit.  With some difficulty she had joined in the devotional service performed by her uncle in the little temple—­borne there in the arms of old Reuben, for her weakness now prevented walking—­and on the evening of the Sabbath in the Festival, she reclined on one of the luxurious couches within the tent, through the opening of which, she could look forth on the varied beauties of the Vale, and the rich glorious hues dyeing the western skies.  The Sabbath lamps were lighted, but their rays were faint and flickering in the still glowing atmosphere.  A crimson ray from the departing luminary gleamed through the branches, and a faint glow—­either from its reflection, or from that deceiving beauty, which too often gilds the features of the dying—­rested on Marie’s features, lighting up her large and lustrous eyes with unnatural brilliance.  She had been speaking earnestly of that life beyond the grave, belief in which throughout her trials had been her sole sustainer.  Julien had listened, wrapt and almost awe-struck, so completely did it seem as if the spirit, and not the mortal, spoke.