“Dead—dead thou wert!—cold lay that form In rarest beauty moulded, And meekly o’er thy still, white breast The snowy hands were folded. Pale wert thou as the lily buds Twined ’mid thy raven tresses, And cold thy lip, and still thy heart To all my wild caresses!” —GRACE GREENWOOD. “Another hand is beckoning on Another call is given, And glows once more with angel steps The path which reaches Heaven.” —WHITTIER. The beautiful residence of Mr. Hastings was situated in the suburbs of the city, so that Emily, although familiar with all the gayeties and fashionable delights of life in town, was constantly surrounded with all the sweet influences of Nature. The rippling of streams and the rustling of forest leaves were the music of home voices, and winding paths through green fields and woods, up sunny hill-sides and over mossy rocks, were dearer than the gay promenade in the city, or even the aristocratic drive with her father’s noble grays. The day following that of her interview with Edgar, was bright with a warm May sunshine, and beautiful in all the just unfolded loveliness of spring. The breeze came whispering at her open window with an eloquence not to be resisted, and with a brain full of busy fancies, and a heart laden with sweet thoughts, she sauntered out into the delicious air. With a light quick step she walked along the graveled street, past cultivated grounds and noble dwellings, until she reached the green turf and wooded slopes beyond. And here where the fresh, glad life of Nature seemed kindred with her own, she loitered leisurely along grass-bordered lanes, and beneath grand old trees, dreaming of Edgar, of his genius and of his goodness, and of his love for her. On her route, where a river curved around the foot of a gently sloping hill, in the shadow of old forest trees was made a rural cemetery—so beautiful with its quiet paths, and its cool shades, that the living loved to wander there; they who came not to watch beside the dead, as well as they who tended the flowers upon the graves of those they had lost. Through a low ivy-covered gateway of stone, Emily entered the quiet place. There were no massive railings and lofty monuments, no superb carvings and costly devices, but love had made very beautiful this last resting-place of the dead—sweet flowers were blooming every where, and murmuring streams were guided along by the well-trodden paths. Here and there arose a simple shaft or a light column, and the graves of a household enclosed by a green hedge, or surrounded by shadowing trees.