Now, for the first time in my life, I walked voluntarily thitherward, and climbing on a log by the fence-side, gazed long and earnestly within.  I stood beneath a tall locust-tree, and the small, round leaves; yellow now as the long cloud-bar across the sunset, kept dropping, and dropping at my feet, till all the faded grass was covered up.  There the mattock had never been struck; but in fancy I saw the small Heaves falling and drifting about a new and smooth-shaped mound—­and, choking with the turbulent outcry in my heart, I glided stealthily homeward—­alas! to find the boding shape I had seen through mists and, shadows awfully palpable.  I did not ask about Rosalie.  I was afraid; but with my rural gleanings in my lap, opened the door of her chamber.  The physician had preceded me but a moment, and, standing by the bedside, was turning toward the lessening light the little wasted hand, the one on which I had noticed in the morning a small purple spot.  “Mortification!” he said, abruptly, and moved away, as though his work were done.

There was a groan expressive of the sudden and terrible consciousness which had in it the agony of agonies—­the giving up of all.  The gift I had brought fell from my relaxed grasp, and, hiding my face in the pillow, I gave way to the passionate sorrow of an undisciplined nature.

When at last I looked up, there was a smile on her lips that no faintest moan ever displaced again.

A good man and a skilful physician was Dr. H——­, but his infirmity was a love of strong drink; and, therefore, was it that he softened not the terrible blow which must soon have fallen.  I link with his memory no reproaches now, for all this is away down in the past; and that foe that sooner or later biteth like a serpent, soon did his work; but then my breaking heart judged him, hardly.  Often yet, for in all that is saddest memory is faithfulest, I wake suddenly out of sleep, and live over that first and bitterest sorrow of my life; and there is no house of gladness in the world that with a whisper will not echo the moan of lips pale with the kisses of death.

Sometimes, when life is gayest about me, an unseen hand leads me apart, and opening the door of that still chambers I go in—­the yellow leaves are at my feet again, and that white band between me and the light.

I see the blue flames quivering and curling close and the smouldering embers on the hearth.  I hear soft footsteps and sobbing voices and see the clasped hands and placid smile of her who, alone among us all, was untroubled; and over the darkness and the pain I hear voice, saying, “She is not dead, but sleepeth.”  Would, dear reader, that you might remember, and I too all ways, the importance of soft and careful words.  One harsh or even thoughtlessly chosen epithet, may bear with it a weight which shall weigh down some heart through all life.  There are for us all nights of sorrow, in which we feel their value.  Help us, our Father, to remember it!