“The hymn book—the hymn book—bring that too,” he gasped, while a cold perspiration stood thickly upon his forehead. It was brought and placed on the opposite side of his head. “’Twon’t do—’twon’t do,” he sobbed. “All the hymns Dr. Watts ever wrote can’t help me, for they come nearer and nearer, as wolves hover round their prey. Is there no help, no escape?” he cried, with the energy of despair; adding, as a sudden look of joy lit up his ghastly features, “Yes—the BIBLE! Strange I have not thought of that before. The Bible will keep them at bay. Bring it, Anna, quick, for they are almost here.” She obeyed; and grasping the word of God eagerly in his hands, he laughed aloud, saying, “Now, do your worst, ye fiends incarnate. The Bible will save me.” There was a moment of perfect silence; and then, with a groan so full of anguish that I involuntarily stopped my ears to shut out the fearful sound, the Bible was loosed from the clammy hands, which for a brief instant fought fiercely in the empty air, and then dropped lifeless at his side. HERBERT WAS DEAD! * * * * * At the foot of the garden, near the long avenue where the shadow of the maple trees would fall upon his grave, and the moan of the lake be always heard, we buried him; and then, the broken-hearted Anna, widowed thus early, went back to her accustomed duties, performing each one quietly and gently, but without a smile upon her white, stony face, or a tear in her large mournful blue eyes. Aunt Charlotte, too, utterly crushed and wretched, went back to her city home, having first won a promise from Anna that in the autumn she would follow her. And then we were left alone with our great sorrow, wholly dependent, as it were, upon Mr. Watson, for support and counsel. There had always been about him a mystery I could not fathom, and greatly was I surprised when one evening, a week after Herbert’s death, he asked me to go with him to his room, as there was something he wished to tell me. I complied with his request, and was soon seated in the large willow chair near the table on which lay many works of our best authors, for he possessed a taste for literature, and devoted all his leisure moments to study. Drawing a seat to my side, he said, taking my hand in his, “Rosa, what do you think I am going to tell you?” I tried to wrest my hand from his grasp, for the unwonted liberty angered me. But he held it fast, smiling at my fruitless endeavors, and after a moment continued: “Why do you try to remove your hand from mine? I have held it many a time, and I have a right so to do—a _cousin’s_ right. Look at me, Rosa, don’t you know me?” Involuntarily I started to my feet, gazing earnestly upon him, then with a cry of joy I threw my arms around his neck, exclaiming, “_Cousin Will! Cousin Will!_”