"Then I must die, and leave my only child possessed with a murderer’s spirit!" The depth of her last agony, and which I believed would cling to her even in heaven, was more than I could bear. I knelt on the floor and put my hand to her side. Her worn out heart was throbbing again, with the pang of her disappointment. "Mother," I cried, "I will promise you this. When I have discovered, as I must do, that man who has made you a widow and me an orphan, if I find any plea whatever to lessen his crime, or penitence to atone for it, as I hope to see my father and mother in heaven, I will try to spare and forgive him. Can you wish me to rest in ignorance, and forget that deed?" "Clara," she answered weakly, and she spoke more slowly and feebly every time, "you have promised me all I can hope for. How you loved your father! Me too you have loved I cannot say how much. For my sake, you have borne poverty, trouble, and illness, without a complaining word. By day, and by night, through my countless wants, and long fretfulness." I put my finger upon her pale lips. How could she tell such a story then? Her tears came now and then, and would not be stopped, as she laid her weak hand on my head. "May the God of the fatherless and the poor, who knows and comforts the widow’s grief, the God who is taking me now to His bosom, bless with all blessings of earth and heaven, and restore to me this my child." A sudden happiness fell upon her, as if she had seen her prayer’s acceptance. She let her arms fall round me, and laid my cheek by the side of her bright flowing smile. It was the last conscious stir of the mind; all the rest seemed the flush of the soul. In the window the night-scented heath was blooming; outside it, the jessamine crossed in a milky way of white stars, and the lush honeysuckle had flung down her lap in clusters. The fragrance of flowers lay heavy upon us, and we were sore weary with the burden of sorrow and joy. So tranquil and kind was the face of death, that sleep, his half-brother, still held his hand. The voice of the thrush, from the corner laurel, broke the holy stillness. Like dreams of home that break our slumbers, his melody was its own excuse. My mother awoke, and said faintly, with no gleam in her eyes: "Raise me upon the pillow, my love, that I may hear him once more. He sings like one your father and I used to listen to every evening, in the days when we watched your cradle." I lifted her gently. The voice of nature made way for her passing spirit. "Now kiss me, my child; once more, my own loved child, my heart is with you for ever. Light of my eyes, you are growing dim." She clasped her hands in prayer, with one of mine between them. My other was round her neck. Then she spoke slowly, and with a waning voice; but firmly, as if it had been her marriage-response. "Thou art my guide, and my staff. I have no fear, neither shadow of trembling. Make no long tarrying, oh my God!"