She never stirred. I went over to her; she was quite still, with her little hands crossed on her lap, and her head drooping on her chest. I touched her--she was cold. I gave a loud scream, and Richard came running; he stopped and looked, and then burst out crying like an infant. Our little sister was dead! Well, my Mary, the sorrow was bitter, but it was short. You're gone home to Him that comforts as a mother comforteth. _Agra machree_, your eyes are as blue, and your hair as golden, and your voice as sweet, as they were when you watched by the cabin-door; but your cheeks are not pale, _acushla_, nor your little hands thin, and the shade of sorrow has passed away from your forehead like a rain-cloud from the summer sky. She that loved you so on earth, has clasped you forever to her bosom in heaven; and God himself has wiped away all tears from your eyes, and placed you both and our own dear father, far beyond the touch of sorrow or the fear of death. FOOTNOTES: [F] White dove. [G] Rich. [H] Small potatoes. [I] By-road. THE OLD WELL IN LANGUEDOC. The proof of the truth of the following statement, taken from the _Courrier de l'Europe_, rests not only upon the known veracity of the narrator, but upon the fact that the whole occurrence is registered in the judicial records of the criminal trials of the province of Languedoc. We give it as we heard it from the lips of the dreamer, as nearly as possible in his own words. As the junior partner in a commercial house at Lyons, I had been traveling some time on the business of the firm, when, one evening in the month of June, I arrived at a town in Languedoc where I had never before been. I put up at a quiet inn in the suburbs, and, being very much fatigued, ordered dinner at once; and went to bed almost immediately after, determined to begin very early in the morning my visits to the different merchants. I was no sooner in bed than I fell into a deep sleep, and had a dream that made the strongest impression upon me.