Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds; then the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased.  Eugene felt a long shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed her lips, and Cornelia Graham’s soul was with its God.

Ah! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and questioning, what an exit!  Eugene lifted the attenuated form and placed it on the bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and sobbed like a broken-hearted child.  Mr. Graham took his wife from the room; and, after some minutes, Dr. Hartwell touched the kneeling figure, with the face still pressed against the chair Eugene now occupied.

“Come, Beulah; she will want you no more.”

She lifted a countenance so full of woe that, as he looked at her, the moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on her head, saying: 

“Come with me, Beulah.”

“And this is death?  Oh, my God, save me from such a death!”

She clasped her hands over her eyes, and shivered; then, rising from her kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face in its cushions.  That long night of self-communion was never forgotten.

The day of the funeral was cold, dark, and dismal.  A January wind howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers enhanced the gloom.  The parlors and sitting room were draped, and on the marble slab of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with a velvet pall.  Once before Beulah had entered a room similarly shrouded; and it seemed but yesterday that she stood beside Lilly’s rigid form.  She went in alone, and waited some moments near the coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of conflicting sorrows in her oppressed heart; then lifted the covering and looked on the sleeper.  Wan, waxen, and silent.  No longer the fitful sleep of disease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness of ruthless death.  The black locks were curled around the forehead, and the beautiful hands folded peacefully over the heart that should throb no more with the anguish of earth.  Death had smoothed the brow and put the trembling mouth at rest, and every feature was in repose.  In life she had never looked so placidly beautiful.

“What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries?  She died, no nearer the truth than when she began.  She died without hope and without knowledge.  Only death could unseal the mystery,” thought Beulah, as she looked at the marble face and recalled the bitterness of its lifelong expression.  Persons began to assemble; gradually the rooms filled.  Beulah bent down and kissed the cold lips for the last time, and, lowering her veil, retired to a dim corner.  She was very miserable, but her eyes were tearless, and she sat, she knew not how long, unconscious of what passed around her.  She heard the stifled sobs of the bereaved parents as in a painful dream; and when the solemn silence was broken she started, and saw a venerable man, a stranger, standing at the head of the coffin; and these words fell upon her ears like a message from another world: