"Hush, hush!" said Trevylyan, wildly; "or I shall think you an angel
already."

But let us close this commune, and leave unrevealed the _last_ sacred
words that ever passed between them upon earth.

When Vane and the physician stole back softly into the room, Trevylyan
motioned to them to be still. "She sleeps," he whispered; "hush!" And
in truth, wearied out by her own emotions, and lulled by the belief
that she had soothed one with whom her heart dwelt now, as ever, she had
fallen into sleep, or it may be, insensibility, on his breast. There
as she lay, so fair, so frail, so delicate, the twilight deepened into
shade, and the first star, like the hope of the future, broke forth upon
the darkness of the earth.

Nothing could equal the stillness without, save that which lay
breathlessly within. For not one of the group stirred or spoke, and
Trevylyan, bending over her, never took his eyes from her face, watching
the parted lips, and fancying that he imbibed the breath. Alas, the
breath was stilled! from sleep to death she had glided without a
sigh,--happy, most happy in that death! cradled in the arms of unchanged
love, and brightened in her last thought by the consciousness of
innocence and the assurances of Heaven!

.......

Trevylyan, after a long sojourn on the Continent, returned to England.
He plunged into active life, and became what is termed in this age
of little names a distinguished and noted man. But what was mainly
remarkable in his future conduct was his impatience of rest. He
eagerly courted all occupations, even of the most varied and motley
kind,--business, letters, ambition, pleasure. He suffered no pause in
his career; and leisure to him was as care to others. He lived in
the world, as the worldly do, discharging its duties, fostering its
affections, and fulfilling its career. But there was a deep and wintry
change within him,--_the sunlight of his life was gone_; the loveliness
of romance had left the earth. The stem was proof as heretofore to the
blast, but the green leaves were severed from it forever, and the bird
had forsaken its boughs. Once he had idolized the beauty that is born of
song, the glory and the ardour that invest such thoughts as are not of
our common clay; but the well of enthusiasm was dried up, and the golden
bowl was broken at the fountain. With Gertrude the poetry of existence
was gone. As she herself had described her loss, a music had ceased to
breathe along the face