"I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: its mine,' And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign; And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seemed to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near--I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go; And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day, But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away; And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret-- There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet;-- If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know; And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-- Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and 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.