_Cords_:--The word struck lightly on the sensitive chain of association, and there was an instant response from the past;--"Holden with the cords of his sins." No doubt that was the essential truth. Strictly speaking, a separate act or an individual life was an impossibility; each was bound to each by influence or consequence; sin, especially, entailed its results upon a wide circle of inheritors,--the sinner himself, his kindred, friends, neighbors, even his descendants unto remote generations. Doubtless the sins of many old-time Bergans had helped to twist the cords which had held the mansion of their pride to so sad a period of desertion and decay, if not their scion to so woful a death. With how many such cords was he himself holden, and to what, and for how long? He lifted his eyes with a start. A dim shadow had fallen on the floor; something was intercepting the gray dawn-rays, which feebly lit the room. He looked at the open window; it framed a slight graceful figure, a wan, but lovely face,--both so well remembered, so fondly loved, so mournfully lost! Of course, it was an apparition, a creation of his own excited fancy, called forth to furnish another illustration of the strange ramifications and knottings of those mystical cords, and soon to disappear, and make way for some other sharer of his bonds. And disappear it did; but with a sudden crash, and a startled cry of "Bergan!"--neither of which had any touch of the supernatural. The unexpected sounds at once his awe; he ran to the window, saw that the rotten flooring of the upper piazza had broken down under some recent weight, leaped the gap, flew down the steps, and found lying underneath a motionless form and a lily-pale face, both half hidden in long, flowing tresses. No apparition this, but a living, breathing Carice,--or what had lately been such;--she looked deathlike enough now. It may well be questioned whether love ever dies. It disappears from sight, no doubt; it ceases to be felt as motive or end; the very heart from whence it sprang believes that it is no more; perhaps a new--and true--affection occupies its place and does its work. But is this apparent death anything more than a partial decay, analogous to that by which thousands of perennial plants seem annually to perish from the face of the earth, under the frosts of autumn, but the roots of which, nevertheless, carefully preserve their life-principle within, ready to respond with swift springing verdure to the tender kisses and tears of the springtime sun and rain? Is not all death only a sleep?