"And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on; and now autumn had come, with its gorgeous beauty, and no one had courage to speak of breaking up our happy circle; but ah! there came _one_, with stealthy steps, _who had no such scruples_!
"The merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls; anxious faces are grouped on the piazza; for in a darkened room above, lies Mary's princely husband, delirious with fever! The smile has fled her lip, the rose her cheek; her eye is humid with tears _that never fall_; day and night without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil; while (unconscious of her presence,) in tones that pierce her heart, he calls unceasingly for 'my wife!' She puts back the tangled masses of dark hair from his heated forehead; she passes her little hand coaxingly over it; she hears not the advice of the physician, 'to procure a nurse.' She fears not to be alone with him when he is raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the impress of an (almost) _deadly_ blow from the hand that was never before raised but to _bless her_. And now the physician, who has come _once, twice, thrice_ a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in the hall that his patient _must die_; not one dare break the news to the wretched Mary! There is little need! She has gazed in their faces with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no questions, but she knows it all; and her heart is dying within her! No entreaty, no persuasion can draw her from the bedside.
"The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling form, and says, 'My child, you _cannot_ meet the _next hour_--leave him with me.'
"A mournful shake of the head is his only answer, as she takes her seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low, upon that clammy hand; praying God that _she_ may die with him.
"An hour of TIME--an ETERNITY of agony has passed! A fainting, unresisting form is borne from that chamber of _Death_.
"Beautiful as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the husband!--no trace of pain on lip or brow; the long, heavy lashes lie upon the marble cheek; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, cluster profusely round the noble forehead; those chiseled lips are gloriously beautiful in their repose! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes; servants pass to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread; kind hands are busy with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. Oh that _bitter_, BITTER waking! (for she _does_ wake. God pity her!)