[Footnote C: Every one remembers that Goethe's last words are said to have been, "More Light;" and perhaps what has occurred in the text may be supposed a plagiarism from those words. But, in fact, nothing is more common than the craving and demand for light a little before death. Let any consult his own sad experience in the last moments of those whose gradual close he has watched and tended. What more frequent than a prayer to open the shutters and let in the sun? What complaint more repeated, and more touching, than "that it is growing dark?" I once knew a sufferer--who did not then seem in immediate danger--suddenly order the sick-room to be lit up as if for a gala. When this was told to the physician, he said gravely, "No worse sign."] Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent splendor. "And," he said inly--"and does this large erring nature, marred by its genial faults--this soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb the room, with a light that linked earth to heaven--does it pass away into the dark, and leave not a ray behind? Nay, if the elements of light are ever in the space, and when the flame goes out, return to the vital air--so thought, once kindled, lives for ever around and about us, a part of our breathing atmosphere. Many a thinker, many a poet, may yet illume the world, from the thoughts which yon genius, that will have no name, gave forth--to wander through air, and recombine again in some new form of light." Thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking, as youth enamored of fame seeks too fondly, to prove that mind never works, however erratically, in vain--and to retain yet, as an influence upon earth, the soul about to soar far beyond the atmosphere where the elements that make fame abide. Not thus had the dying man interpreted the endurance of light and thought. Suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, a low cry broke on his ear. He shuddered as he heard, and hastened forebodingly into the adjoining room. The old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and chafing Burley's hand--eagerly looking into his face. A glance sufficed to Leonard. All was over. Burley had died in sleep--calmly, and without a groan. The eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible softness which death sometimes leaves; and still they were turned toward the light; and the light burned clear. Leonard closed tenderly the heavy lids; and, as he covered the face, the lips smiled a serene farewell. (TO BE CONTINUED.) THE LITTLE GRAY GOSSIP.