ong gloom, a shadowy remembrance comes to me
of standing in the door-way of a darkened chamber. A minister in white
bands stood at the foot of the bed, performing the marriage-ceremony. I
remember Jamie's paleness, and the heavenly look in Mary's face, as she
stood at the bedside, holding his right hand in hers. Mother passed her
hand over my head, and whispered to me that Mary wanted to take care of
him.

One of my fancies was, that a dark bird, like a vulture, constantly
pursued me. All day I was trying to escape him, and all the while I
slept he was at my pillow.

As I came to myself I found this to be a form given by my excited
imagination to a dark thought which would give me no rest. It was the
idea that my conduct had been the means of Margaret's death. I never
dared question. They said it was fever,--that others died of the same.
If I could but have spoken to her,--could but have seen, once more, the
same old look and smile! This was an ever-present thought.

But I did afterwards. I told her everything. She knows my folly and my
grief.

It was in the night-time. I was walking through the woods, on the road
to Swampsey Village. Margaret walked beside me for a long way. Just
before she left me, she said,--

"Do you hear the surf on the beach?"

I said, "Yes, I hear the surf."

"And what is it saying?"

I listened a moment, then answered,--

"It says, 'Woe! woe! woe!'"

She said, "Listen again."

While I was listening, she disappeared. But a moment afterwards I heard
a voice speaking in the midst of the surfs roaring. It was just as plain
and distinct as the minister's from the pulpit. It said, "Endure!
endure! endure."

I might think that all this, even my seeing Margaret, was only a
creation of my disordered mind, were it not for something happening
afterwards which proved itself.

One evening, about twilight, I walked through the graveyard, and stood
leaning against her tombstone. I soon knew that she was coming, for I
heard the ringing sound in the air which always came before her. A
moment after, she stood beside me. She placed her hand on my heart, and
said, "Joseph, all is right here,"--then upon my forehead, and said,
"But here all is wrong."

Then she told me there was a ship ready to sail from Boston, and that I
must go in her,--said it troubled her that I wasted my life so. She gave
me the name of the ship and of the captain, and told me when to go.

I did exactly as she said. And it