“Such remarks as these,” continued Cousin Janet, “convinced me that there was grief, but not guilt, on Ellen’s breast, and for her own sake, I hoped that she would so explain to me her past history, that I should have it in my power to clear her reputation.  But she never did.  Truly, ’she died and made no sign,’ and it is reserved to a future day to do her justice.

“I said she died.  That last night wore on, and no word of impatience or complaint escaped her lips.  The agony of death found her quiet and composed.  Night advanced, and the gray morning twilight fell on those features, no longer flushed and excited.  Severe faintings had come on, and the purple line under the blue eyes heralded the approach of death.  Her luxuriant hair lay in damp masses about her; her white arms were cold, and the moisture of death was gathering there too.  ‘Oh!  Miss Ellen,’ cried old Lucy, ‘you will be better soon—­bear up a little longer.’

“‘Ellen dear,’ I said, ‘try and keep up.’  But who can give life and strength save One?—­and He was calling to her everlasting rest the poor young sufferer.

“‘Miss Ellen,’ again cried Lucy, ‘you have a son; speak to me, my darling;’ but, like Rachel of old, she could not be thus revived, ’her soul was in departing.’

“Lucy bore away the child from the chamber of death, and I closed her white eyelids, and laid her hands upon her breast.  Beautiful was she in death:  she had done with pain and tears forever.

“I never can forget,” continued Cousin Janet, after a pause of a few moments, “Lucy’s grief.  She wept unceasingly by Ellen’s side, and it was impossible to arouse her to a care for her own health, or to an interest in what was passing around.  On the day that Ellen was to be buried, I went to the room where she lay prepared for her last long sleep.  Death had laid a light touch on her fair face.  The sweet white brow round which her hair waved as it had in life—­the slightly parted lips—­the expression of repose, not only in the countenance, but in the attitude in which her old nurse had laid her, seemed to indicate an awakening to the duties of life.  But there was the coffin and the shroud, and there sat Lucy, her eyes heavy with weeping, and her frame feeble from long fasting, and indulgence of bitter, hopeless grief.

“It was in the winter, and a severe snow-storm, an unusual occurrence with us, had swept the country for several days; but on this morning the wind and clouds had gone together, and the sun was lighting up the hills and river, and the crystals of snow were glistening on the evergreens that stood in front of the cottage door.  One ray intruded through the shutter into the darkened room, and rested on a ring, which I had never observed before, on Ellen’s left hand.  It was on the third finger, and its appearance there was so unexpected to me, that for a moment my strength forsook me, and I leaned against the table on which the coffin rested, for support.