In their prime,—­in their beauty,—­in their pride of youth,—­in their pleasure, they died.  What was the strong man or the smiling woman,—­what was the smooth sea, the shining sail,—­what was strength, skill, loveliness, against the great and terrible wind of the Lord?

So here they lay, white and quiet as sculptured stone, and as placid as if they had only fallen asleep in the midst of the tempestuous uproar.  All the clamor and talking about the house had subsided in the real presence of death; and every one went lightly and softly around, as if afraid of wakening the sleepers.

She had never looked so beautiful, even in her utmost pride of health and bloom.  Her dark luxuriant hair lay in masses over brow and bosom, and her face expressed the unspeakable calm and perfect peace which are suggested only by the sleep of childhood.  The long eyelashes seemed to say, in their close adherence to the cheek, how gladly they shut out the tumult of life; and the whole cast of the face was so elevated by death as to look rather angelic than mortal.

His face was quiet, too,—­the manliness and massive character of the features giving a majestic and severe cast to the whole countenance, far more elevated than it had while living.

We could only weep over these relics.  But where was the deepest mourner?  No one had even seen these two before, or could give any account of them.

On making stricter inquiry and looking at the books, we found that Mr. and Mrs. Lewis had arrived first.  Mr. Lewis had taken his gun and a boat, and gone out at once to shoot.  The lady had been in her room but a short time, when another gentleman arrived, wrote his name, and ordered a boat.  She had scarcely seen any one, but the boatman saw her step into the boat, and described her dress.

A message was at once sent to “the Glades,” where Mr. Lewis had gone, and where he was detained, as we had supposed, by the storm.  Before he reached the house, however, all necessary arrangements were completed for removing any associations of suffering.  No confusion remained; the room was gently darkened, and the bodies, robed in white, lay in such peaceful silence as soothes and quiets the mourner.

As the carriage drew up to the door, we both hastened to meet Mr. Lewis, to take him by the hand, and to lead him, by our evident sympathy, to accept his terrible affliction with something like composure.  In our entire uncertainty as to his feelings, we could only weep silently, and hold his hands, which were as cold as death.

He looked surprised a little at seeing us, but otherwise his face was like stone.  His eyes,—­they, too, looked stony, and as if all the expression and life were turned inward.  Outwardly, there seemed hardly consciousness.  He sat down between us, while we related all the particulars of the accident, which he seemed greedy to hear,—­turning, as one ceased, to the other, with an eager, hungry look, most painful to witness.  He made us describe, repeatedly, our last glimpse of the unconscious victims, and then, pressing our hands with a vice-cold grip, said, in a dry whisper,—­