There was no violent grief in her. His death had been so peaceful and holy, that at first she did not even shed tears. Quite calmly she knelt down by his side when they had laid him in his white dress on the bed, and kissed his pate brow and lips, looking almost reproachfully on Bertha, as—standing by her side—she sobbed aloud; quite calmly, too, she let them lead her from the room, and as they bade her, she lay down upon her bed, and closed her eyes as if to sleep. And then in her solitude, in the darkened room, she wept quite silently, stretching out her arms, and crying for her child. For many years two gentle, quiet women lived alone in the little cottage in the dell, moving amongst the dwellers in that country village like two ministering angels; nursing the sick, comforting the sorrowful, helping the needy, soothing many a deathbed with their gentle, holy words; spreading peace around them wheresoever their footsteps went. And often in the summer evenings, one of them—the youngest and most beautiful—would wend her quiet way to the old church-yard, and there, in a green, sunny spot, would calmly sit and work for hours, while the lime-trees waved their leaves above her, and the sunlight shining through them, danced and sparkled on a little grave. * * * * * =LAY OF THE CRUSADER.= =BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.= Ginevra! Ginevra! Thy girlish lip is mute; And silent, in ancestral hall, Hangs now thy gilded lute; With trophies from the Holy Land Hath come thine own true Knight, To wildly wish the desert sand Had drank his blood in fight. Ginevra! Ginevra! By palmer wert thou told, That on the plains of Palestine My corse was lying cold; And credence giving to the tale, Went up wild prayer to _die_, While suddenly thy cheek grew pale, And lustreless thine eye. Ginevra! Ginevra! No more thy lulling voice, When twilight paints the sky, will trill The ballad of my choice; Thy parting gift, my buried bride, Will nerve this arm no more, When speeds my barb with fetlock dyed In Saracenic gore. Ginevra! Ginevra! Death holds in icy thrall Thy loveliness of form and face, In his unlighted hall; With laurels from the Holy Land Hath come thine own true Knight, To wildly wish the desert sand Had drank his blood in fight. * * * * *