thought--who would buy or read it?

A down-town clock strikes the hour of two so gently, that it sounds like
the tinkling of sheep-bells coming through the misty twilight air from the
green meadows. With which felicitous simile we will give our hero a little
sleep, after having kept him up two hours after midnight.

Slumber touches his eyelids gently; but Daisy lies awake for hours; at
last, falling into a trouble sleep, she dreams that she is an heiress.

Oh, Daisy Snarle!

V.

_The bitter cups of Death are mixed,
And we must drink and drink again._

R. H. STODDARD.

V.

DAISY SNARLE.

_Sunday Morning--Harvey Snarle and Mortimer--A Tale of Sorrow--The
Snow-child--Mortimer takes Daisy's hand--Snarle's death._

Six months previous to the commencement of the last chapter, Mr. Harvey
Snarle lay dying, slowly, in a front room of the little house in
Marion-street.

It was Sunday morning.

The church bells were ringing--speaking with musical lips to "ye goode
folk," and chiming a sermon to the pomp and pride of the city. As Mortimer
sat by the window, the houses opposite melted before his vision; and again
he saw the old homestead buried in a world of leaves--heard the lapping of
the sea, and a pleasant chime of bells from the humble church at Ivytown.
And more beautiful than all, was a child with clouds of golden hair,
wandering up and down the sea-shore.

"Mortimer?" said the sick man.

Then the dream melted, and the common-looking brick buildings came back
again.

"The doctor thought I could not live?" said the man, inquiringly.

"He thought there was little hope," replied Mortimer. "But doctors are not
fortune-tellers," he added, cheerfully.

"I feel that he is right--little hope. Where is Daisy?"

"She has lain down for a moment. Shall I call her?"

"Wearied! Poor angel; she watched me last night. I did not sleep much. I
closed my eyes, and she smiled to think that I was slumbering quietly. No;
do not call her."

After a pause, the sick man said:

"Wet my lips, I have something to tell you."

Mortimer moistened his feverish lips, and sat on the bed-side.

"It comes over me," said the consumptive.

"What? That pain?"

"No; my life. There is something drearier than death in the world."

"Sometimes life," thought Mortimer, half aloud.

The sick man looked at him.

"Why did you say that?"

"I thought it. Life is a bitter gift sometimes.