out its arms in glorious happiness to greet the
Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out carols of bird,
and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.

There was a letter lying on the table, it read:

"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token.
Perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you.
Violets, you know, are my favorite flowers. Dear, little, human-faced
things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then
they signify that thought which passes always between you and me. The
orange blossoms--you know their meaning; the little pinks are the
flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of
our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you kissed and
pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-roses on my bosom,
and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in
my memory. The violets and pinks are from a bunch I wore to-day, and
when kneeling at the altar, during communion, did I sin, dear, when I
thought of you? The tube-roses and orange-blossoms I wore Friday night;
you always wished for a lock of my hair, so I'll tie these flowers with
them--but there, it is not stable enough; let me wrap them with a bit of
ribbon, pale blue, from that little dress I wore last winter to the
dance, when we had such a long, sweet talk in that forgotten nook. You
always loved that dress, it fell in such soft ruffles away from the
throat and bosom,--you called me your little forget-me-not, that night.
I laid the flowers away for awhile in our favorite book,--Byron--just at
the poem we loved best, and now I send them to you. Keep them always in
remembrance of me, and if aught should occur to separate us, press these
flowers to your lips, and I will be with you in spirit, permeating your
heart with unutterable love and happiness."

II.

It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news
of the resurrection. The giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in
field and street; birds carol their sweet twitterings everywhere, and
the heavy perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere with inspiring
fragrance. One long, golden sunbeam steals silently into the
white-curtained window of a quiet room, and lay athwart a sleeping face.
Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined
casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never