t to disengage her arms; and, by
degrees, by very slow degrees, her grasp loosened. At last her arms
gave way and fell by her side, and her eyes partly opened.

"'Thank God! Violet, my own, my beloved, say you are better!'

"She answered not, evidently she did not know him, evidently she
did not see him. A film was on her sight, and her eye was glassy.
He rushed to the water-side, and in a moment he had sprinkled her
temples, now covered with a cold dew. Her pulse beat not, her
circulation seemed suspended. He rubbed the palms of her hands, he
covered her delicate feet with his coat, and then rushing up the
bank into the road, he shouted with frantic cries on all sides. No
one came, no one was near. Again, with a cry of fearful anguish, he
shouted as if an hyena were feeding on his vitals. No sound; no
answer. The nearest cottage was above a mile off. He dared not
leave her. Again he rushed down to the water-side. Her eyes were
still open, still fixed. Her mouth also was no longer closed. Her
hand was stiff, her heart had ceased to beat. He tried with the
warmth of his own body to revive her. He shouted, he wept, he
prayed. All, all in vain. Again he was in the road, again shouting
like an insane being. There was a sound. Hark! It was but the
screech of an owl!

"Once more at the river-side, once more bending over her with
starting eyes, once more the attentive ear listening for the
soundless breath. No sound! not even a sigh! Oh! what would he have
given for her shriek of anguish! No change had occurred in her
position, but the lower part of her face had fallen; and there was
a general appearance which struck him with awe. Her body was quite
cold, her limbs stiffened. He gazed, and gazed, and gazed. He bent
over her with stupor rather than grief stamped on his features. It
was very slowly that the dark thought came over his mind, very
slowly that the horrible truth seized upon his soul. He gave a loud
shriek, and fell on the lifeless body of VIOLET FANE!"

A line in Disraeli's unfortunate tragedy of _Alarcos_ pathetically
admits: "Ay! ever pert is youth that baffles age!" The youth of Disraeli
was "pert" beyond all record, and those who cannot endure to be teased
should not turn to his early romances, or, indeed, to any of his
writings. _Henrietta Temple_ is the b