ll play you another which will please you better, though
the words are not mine." And turning again to the harp, she sang, in a
low, plaintive strain, unlike her former triumphant burst of song:

Slowly, slowly tolls the bell,
A heavy note of sorrow;
But gaily will its blithe notes swell
The bridal peal to-morrow,
To-morrow!

The dead man in his shroud to-night
No hope from earth can borrow;
The bride within her tresses bright
Shall wreathe the rose to-morrow,
To-morrow!

The drops that gem that lowly bier,
Though shed in mortal sorrow,
Will not recall a single tear
In festal halls to-morrow!
To-morrow!

'Tis thus through life, from joy and grief,
Alternate shades we borrow;
To-night in tears we find relief,
In smiles of joy to-morrow,
To-morrow!

"What divine music!"

"And the words, Cousin Anthony--you say nothing about the words."

"Are both your own?"

"Oh, no; I am only in heart a poet. I lack the power to give utterance
to--

'The thoughts that breathe and words that burn.'

They were written by a friend--a friend, whom, next to Fred, I love
better than the whole world--Juliet Whitmore."

"And do _you_ know Juliet?"

"I will tell you all about it," said Clary, leaving her harp and sitting
down beside him. "After dear Lucy died, I was very, very ill, and Fred
took me to the sea-side for the benefit of bathing. I was a poor, pale,
wasted, woe-begone thing. We lodged next door to the house occupied by
Captain Whitmore, who was spending the summer upon the coast with his
family.

"He picked acquaintance with me upon the beach one day; and whenever
nurse took me down to bathe, he would pat my cheek, and tell me to bring
home a red rose to mix with the lily in my face. I told him, laughingly,
'That roses never grew by the sea shore,' and he told me to come with
him to his lodgings and see. And then he introduced me to Juliet, and we
grew great friends, for though she was much taller and more womanly, she
was only one year older than me. And we used to walk, and talk a great
deal to each other, all the time we remained at ----, which was about
three months; and, though we have not met since Fred bought Millbank,
and came to this part of the country, she often writes to me sweet
letters, full of poetry,--