he double shock; a long
shivering sob breaks from her; she throws her arms a little wildly
across the couch before which she is kneeling, and gradually her form
sinks upon her arms. No other sob comes to disturb the stillness. An
awful silence follows. Slowly the cold gray morning fills the chamber,
and the sun,--

"Eternal painter, now begins to rise,
And limn the heavens in vermilion dyes."

But within deathly silence reigns. Has peace fallen upon that quiet
form? Has gentle sleep come to her at last?

* * * * *

Horace, ascending the stairs cautiously, before the household is
astir, opens the room where last he had seen Ruth, and comes gently
in. He would have passed on to the inner chamber, thinking to rouse
her to prepare in haste for their early wedding, when the
half-kneeling half-crouching figure before the lounge attracts his
notice.

"Ruth," he says, very gently, fearful lest he shall frighten her by
too sudden a summons back to wakefulness; but there is no reply. How
can she have fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position? "Ruth,"
he calls again, rather louder, some vague fear sending the blood back
to his heart; but again only silence greets his voice. And again he
says, "Ruth!" this time with passionate terror in his tone; but, alas!
there is still no response. For the first time she is deaf to his
entreaty.

Catching her in his arms, he raises her from her kneeling posture,
and, carrying her to the window, stares wildly into her calm
face,--the poor, sad, pretty face of her who had endured so much, and
borne so long, and loved so faithfully.

She is dead!--quite dead! Already the limbs are stiffening, the hands
are icy cold, the lips, that in life would so gladly have returned
kiss for kiss, are now silent and motionless beneath the despairing
caresses he lavishes upon them in the vain hope of finding yet some
warmth remaining.

But there is none. She is gone, past recall, past hearing all
expressions of remorseful tenderness. In the terrible lonely dawn she
had passed away, with no one near to hold her dying hand, without a
sigh or moan, leaving no farewell word of love or forgiveness to the
man who is now straining her lifeless body to his heart, as though to
make one last final effort to bring her back to earth.

There is a happy smile upon her lips, her eyes are quite closed,
almost she seems as one that sleepeth. The awful majesty of death is
upon