when her cares were crowned with success, and the hour of
danger was over. She would have climbed mountains, if it were required,
to carry water to dash on a burning dwelling, yet wished at the same
time to see the flames grow redder and broader, and more destructive.
She would have liked to live near the smoke and fire of battle, so that
she might wander in contemplation among the unburied slain.

The sun went down, but the sun of life still lingered on the verge of
the horizon. The dimness of twilight mingled with the shadows of death.

"Take me out," cried Helen, struggling to be released from her father's
arms. "Oh! take me from here. It don't seem mother that I see."

"Hush--hush," said Mr. Gleason, sternly, "you disturb her last moments."
But Helen, whose feelings were wrought up to a pitch which made
stillness impossible, and restraint agonizing, darted from between her
father's knees and rushed into the passage. But how dim and lonely it
was! How melancholy the cat looked, waiting near the door, with its
calm, green eyes turned towards the chamber where its gentle mistress
lay! It rubbed its white, silky sides against Helen, purring solemnly
and musically, but Helen recollected many a frightful tale of cats,
related by Miss Thusa, and recoiled from the contact. She longed to
escape from herself, to escape from a world so dark and gloomy. Her
mother was going, and why should she stay behind? _Going!_ yet lying so
still and almost breathless there! She had been told that the angels
came down and carried away the souls of the good, but she looked in vain
for the track of their silvery wings. One streak of golden ruddiness
severed the gray of twilight, but it resembled more a fiery bar, closing
the gates of heaven, than a radiant opening to the spirit-land. While
she stood pale and trembling, with her hand on the latch of the door,
afraid to stay where she was, afraid to return and confront the mystery
of death, the gate opened, and Arthur Hazleton came up the steps. He had
been there a short time before, and went away for something which it was
thought might possibly administer relief. He held out his hand, and
Helen clung to it as if it had the power of salvation. He read what was
passing in the mind of the child, and pitied her. He did not try to
reason with her at that moment, for he saw it would be in vain, but
drawing her kindly towards him, he told her he was sorry for her. His
words, like "flaky snow in th