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. An ambition or a passion possess us, flatters and mocks us. Death is not so dreary a thing as life then." "He felt that." "Who?" "The devil." "His mind is wandering," murmured Mortimer--"wandering." "It isn't," said Snarle, slowly. "A passion, a love, made Flint's life bitter." "Flint! Did he ever love anything but gold?"