strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun--

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast--
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!"

When Bell had finished reading, she took Mortimer's hand in her own.

"I shall not die until the violet comes--the beautiful violet, with its
clouded bell!"

March melted into April--the month of tears! Then came blossoming May, and
still Bell lingered, like a strain of music so sweet that the echoes will
not let it die.

One morning in June, the sun with noiseless feet came creeping into the
room--and Bell was dying. Mortimer was telling her of some sea-side walk,
when the unseen angel came between them. Bell's voice went from her, her
heart grew chilly, and she knew that it was death. The boy did not notice
the change; but when her hand lay cold in his, he looked up with fear. He
saw her beautiful eyes looking heavenward, and those smiles which wreathe
the lips of the young after death--the sunset of smiles.

"Bell! Bell! Bell!"

But she did not hear him.

The viewless spirits of flowers came through the open window into the quiet
room; and the winds, which made the curtains tremble, gently lifted the
tresses of the sleeping angel. Then the chiming of village bells came and
went in pulses of soft sound. How musical they were that morning! How the
robins showered their silvery notes, like rain-drops among the leaves!
There was holy life in everything--the lilac-scented atmosphere, the
brooks, the grass, and the flowers that lay budding on the bosom of
delicious June! And thus it was, in the exquisite spring-time, that the
hand of death led little Bell into Soul-land.

* * * * *

One afternoon, the blinds were turned down: not a ray of light stole
through them, only the spicy air. There was something solemn stalking in
the entries, and all through the house. It seemed as if there was a corpse
in every room.

The way the chairs were placed, the darkened parlor, the faded flowers on
the mantel-piece, and the brooding silence said it--said that Bell was
dead!

Yes! In the little parlor she lay, in her white shroud. Bell? No; it was
_not_ Bell. It was only the beautiful robe which her spirit in its flight
had cast aside!

There was a moving of feet to and fro. Gradually, the room became full of
forms. The village parson stood among them.