—Shall I tell her—thought I—who I am, or ask at once for Isabel? I tried to ask, but it was hard for me to call her name; it was very strange, but I could not pronounce it at all. “Who, sir?” said the housekeeper, in a tone so earnest that I rose at once and crossed over and took her hand. “You know me,” said I—“you surely remember Paul?” She started with surprise, but recovered herself and resumed the same grave manner. I thought I had committed some mistake, or been in some way cause of offense. I called her madame, and asked for—Isabel. She turned pale, terribly pale. “Bella?” said she. “Yes. Bella.” “Sir—Bella is dead!” I dropped into my chair. I said nothing. The housekeeper—bless her kind heart!—slipped noiselessly out. My hands were over my eyes. The winds were sighing outside, and the clock ticking mournfully within. I did not sob, nor weep, nor utter any cry. The clock ticked mournfully, and the winds were sighing; but I did not hear them any longer; there was a tempest raging within me that would have drowned the voice of thunder. It broke at length in a long, deep sigh—“Oh, God!”—said I. It may have been a prayer—it was not an imprecation. Bella—sweet Bella, was dead! It seemed as if with her half the world were dead—every bright face darkened—every sunshine blotted out—every flower withered—every hope extinguished! I walked out into the air and stood under the trees where we had played together with poor Tray—where Tray lay buried. But it was not Tray I thought of, as I stood there, with the cold wind playing through my hair and my eyes filling with tears. How could she die? Why _was_ she gone? Was it really true? Was Isabel indeed dead—in her coffin—buried? Then why should anybody live? What was there to live for, now that Bella was gone? Ah, what a gap in the world is made by the death of those we love! It is no longer whole, but a poor half-world, that swings uneasy on its axis and makes you dizzy with the clatter of its wreck! The housekeeper told me all—little by little, as I found calmness to listen. She had been dead a month; Lilly was with her through it all; she died sweetly, without pain, and without fear—what can angels fear? She had spoken often of “Cousin Paul;” she had left a little packet for him, but it was not there; she had given it into Lilly’s keeping.