which, for the room was rather dark, but she
could plainly see on his little finger the
sparkle of a diamond ring.

She is quite certain that Mrs. Saltram did
not see the gentleman at all, which rather
surprised her, for the poor lady moved from
time to time, and spoke, complainingly, of
its being " very cold." At length she called
Susan to sit by her side, and chafe, her hands.

Susan acquiesced — " But did not Mrs. Saltram
see the gentleman?"

"What gentleman?"

"He was sitting beside you, not a minute
since.  I thought he was the doctor, or the
clergyman."

And the girl, much terrified, saw that now,
there was no one there.

She says, Mrs. Saltram did not seem terrified
at all. She only pressed her hands on
her forehead; her lips slightly moving — then
whispered: " Go, call Fanchon and them all,
tell them what you saw."

"But I must leave you.  Are you not
afraid?"

"No. Not now — not now."

She covered her eyes, and again her lips
began moving.

Fanchon entered, and I too, immediately.

I do not expect to be credited.  I can only
state on my honour, what we both then
beheld.

Mrs. Saltram lay, her eyes open, her face
quite calm, as that of a dying person; her
hands spread out on the counterpane. Beside
her sat erect, the same figure I had seen lying
on the sofa in Paris, exactly a year ago. It
appeared more life-like than she. Neither
looked at each other. When we brought a
bright lamp into the room, the appearance
vanished.

Isbel said to me, "Eliza, he is come."

"Impossible! You have not seen him?"

"No, but you have? " She looked me
steadily in the face. " I knew it. Take the
light away, and you will see him again. He
is here, I want to speak to him.  Quick, take
the light away."

Terrified as I was, I could not refuse, for
I saw by her features that her last hour was at
hand.

As surely I write this, I, Eliza Hart, saw,
when the candles were removed, that figure
grow again, as out of air, sitting by her
bedside.

She turned herself with difficulty, and
faced it. " Eliza, is he there?  I see nothing
but the empty chair.  Is he there '?"

"Yes."

"Does he look angry or terrible?"

"No."

"Anastasius." She extended her hand
towards the vacant chair. " Cousin
Anastasius!"

Her voice was sweet, though the cold drops
stood on her brow.

"Cousin Anastasius, I do not see you, but
you can see and hear me. I am not afraid of
you now.  You know, once, I loved you very much."

Here — overcome with terror, I stole back
towards the lighted door.  Thence I still
heard Isbel speaking.

"We erred, both of us, Cousin. You were
too hard upon me — I had too great love first,
too great terror afterwards, of you. Why
should I be afraid of a man that shall die,
and of the son of man, whose breath is in
his nostrils?  I should have worshipped, have
feared, not you, but only God."

She paused — drawing twice or thrice
heavily, the breath that could not last.

"I forgive you  — forgive me also. I loved
you.  Have you anything to say to me,
Anastasius?"

Silence.

"Shall we ever meet in the boundless wide
spheres?"

Silence  — a long silence. We brought in
candles, for she was evidently dying.

"Eliza — thank you for all!  Your hand.
It is so dark  — and "— shivering— "I am afraid
of going into the dark. I might meet Anastasius
there.  I wish my husband would come."

She was wandering in her mind, I saw.
Her eyes turned to the vacant chair.

"Is there any one sitting by me?"

"Dear Isbel; can you see any one?"

"No one — yes" — and with preternatural
strength she started right up in bed, extending
her arms. " Yes! There — close behind
you — I see — my husband.  I am quite safe —
now!"

So, with a smile upon her face, she died.

SPRING LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

The breeze and showers of coming Spring
Will waken many sighs and tears,
Her early blossoms cannot bring
The old delights of peaceful years;
The primrose colour of her sky,
Th' aroma of her budding bowers,
Will but recall the joys gone by,
While Grief is sitting 'mid the flowers.

Beside the rusted cannon-ball
On daisied slopes the lamb will sleep,
Beneath the shelled and battered wall
The deep blue violet upward peep.
In Inkermann sweet buds will blow: —
On Balaklava's blood-stained clay,
Where England's sons rode down the foe,
Children amid the wildflowers play.

Spring-flowers again will deck the sod,
Which heavy-wheeled artillery crushed;
Bloom where the fiery war-horse trod,
And wave where marching columns rushed:
On mountain height, in deep ravine,
Will be in all their beauty found,
As if the silence of the scene
Had ne'er rung back War's trumpet-sound.

Along highways where warriors went,
Last bluebell-time, with fife and drum,
Spring-flowers will throw their sweetest scent,
And belted bees amid them hum.