“O Harry!  My husband! my husband!” She threw up her wasted arms, and fell forward senseless on the corpse.

They bore her into the adjoining apartment, where the surgeon administered the usual restoratives, and though finally the pulses stirred and throbbed feebly, no symptom of returning consciousness greeted the anxious friends who bent over her.  Hour after hour passed, during which she lay as motionless as her husband’s body, and at length the physician sighed, and pressing his fingers to his eyes, said sorrowfully to the grief-stricken old man beside her:  “It is paralysis, Mr. Dent, and there is no hope.  She may linger twelve or twenty-four hours, but her sorrows are ended; she and Harry will soon be reunited.  Knowing her constitution, I feared as much.  You should not have suffered her to come; you might have known that the shock would kill her.  For this reason I wished his body buried here.”

“I could not restrain her.  Some meddling gossip told her that my poor boy had gone to fight a duel, and she rose from her bed and started to the railroad depot.  I pleaded, I reasoned with her that she could not bear the journey, but I might as well have talked to the winds, I never knew her obstinate before, but she seemed to have a presentiment of the truth.  God pity her two sweet babes!”

The old man bowed his head upon her pillow, and sobbed aloud.

Throughout the night Edna crouched beside the bed, watching the wan but lovely face of the young widow, and tenderly chafing the numb, fair hands which lay so motionless on the coverlet.  Children are always sanguine, because of their ignorance of the stern, inexorable realities of the untried future, and Edna could not believe that death would snatch from the world one so beautiful and so necessary to her prattling, fatherless infants.  But morning showed no encouraging symptoms, the stupor was unbroken, and at noon the wife’s spirit passed gently to the everlasting reunion.

Before sunrise on the ensuing day, a sad group clustered once more under the dripping chestnuts, and where a pool of blood had dyed the sod, a wide grave yawned.  The coffins were lowered, the bodies of Henry and Helen Dent rested side by side, and, as the mound rose slowly above them, the solemn silence was broken by the faltering voice of the surgeon, who read the burial service.

“Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.  He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.  Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the pains of eternal death!”