Once before, a few months ago, he had led her into that room his bride--his idol--his flower of beauty--the pride of his soul. Now, he had brought her back to it to die--for there was death in that marble forehead; death in those painfully bright eyes; death in those transparent hands which held his; in that hollow voice, which murmured, as he laid that weak frame and weary head on the pillowed couch--"Home, home once more!" He had sought her--he had found her dying--he had taken her in his arms--he had pressed upon her fevered lips such kisses as their hours of hope and of joy had never known--he had hoped against hope. When she had clasped her thin weak arms round his neck, and whispered, "Take me home, Edward, to die;" he had answered in the words of Scripture, "Thou Shalt not die, but live!" And, verily, in her deep love's excess, she found a short renewal of life. She gathered strength to rise from her bed of weakness and of pain, and, with her head on his bosom, and her hand in his, to breathe again the free air of Heaven, and gaze with a languid eye on those beauties of earth and sky, which have such a deep meaning, such a strange effect, on those who are about to die. For she must die!--she feels it--she knows it--but not as once she thought to die; unreconciled to God, unforgiven by man. Her weary pilgrimage is drawing to a close; but the light of Heaven dawns upon it now. She has a great duty to perform, and perform it she will; for she has learnt that the cross which saves us in eternity must be taken up on earth; and that without sacrifice there is no peace for the soul. She has called Edward to her side; she has mentally prayed that strength may be given her for the trial at hand; she has said to herself, "The scene, his tears, his passion, his soul will too deeply move;" and she has charged him, with solemn earnestness, to leave her for some hours to herself, and then to return and bless the remaining days of that life he cannot save. She remained alone; and deep and intense were the prayers she poured forth, as she waited for those she had sent for; those whom she had summoned around her in that solemn hour. She had never looked so beautiful in her days of pride and health, as now, on her bed of sickness and sorrow, of penitence and peace. Yea, of peace; for, although the approaching hour was one of pain and trial; ay, and of shame too, yet her way was clear before her, and she turned not now her head aside from the cup of sorrow and of humiliation, but steadily prepared to drink it to the dregs. When she saw Mrs. Middleton, the mother of her childhood, the friend of her youth; the friend who had lately sought her with a message of peace, when she had forsaken, and been forsaken by all the world, when she remembered what she had to tell her, her soul well-nigh fainted within her; but she held out her hand in silence, and prayed more earnestly.