'Give me not a name'--cried Sibella. 'I own none! What am I? a shadow! A dream!--Will you oblige me?' added she, vehemently grasping Murden's hand--'Carry to him the name you used to me. Bid him murder that also.--Oh! your touch is ice!'--she exclaimed, throwing his hand suddenly from her; 'you have chilled my blood!' A moment after, she recollected herself. 'Poor Murden!' said she, 'Warm! warm yourself! Why are you so cold?' 'Because I too am but a shadow,' replied Murden. 'Hear me, Miss Valmont. I must call you so.--It was when you came to seek your fawn in the Ruin, that you talked with me there. Do you remember it?' 'I do.' 'Oh, Miss Valmont, Miss Valmont, methought you never looked so lovely, never was so gentle as while you spake two words--Only two. And can you not remember that I said to you--When remembrances of love shall be no longer remembrances of happiness, then--_Die also_.' 'Great God! Do you reproach me with living!' cried Sibella, starting up in the bed in a phrenzy. 'Know you not I expired when--Oh! Am I not dead dead already?' 'Then, let the same grave receive us!' Bending forward, he locked her in his arms, and sunk upon her pillow, never to rise again. * * * * * It is easier, my Lord, for you to imagine than for me to describe the consequence of yesterday's event to my beloved and dying friend. Her convulsions become each hour more and more rapid and exhausting. Yet she has intervals of composure and even of rest, and these serve to detain a little longer her bursting spirit within the fading form. Oh, cruel those who have been the means of thus early separating a mind and form so worthy of happiness, so mated to each other! As for myself, I have endured much, and have much yet to endure, for remembrances of Murden and Sibella, of their virtues and misfortunes will live with me, will be the cherished, tender companions of many hours; nor shall that which the world calls pleasure, ever buy me from one of those hours with the richest of her temptations. Last night, while Sibella slept, I would have slept also, but the scene of yesterday lay a cumbrous load upon my heart. I rose and passed to the chamber where the corpse of Murden is deposited. His faults fled from me. I saw only Murden, I remembered him living, and now I looked on him dead.--My Lord, my Lord, what a contrast!--What a pang! A smile of something more than peace illumines even now the face from whence animation is gone for ever. It was his last smile, the smile he had so dearly purchased. His heart indeed dictated that smile, for it expanded with joy when he felt he should die with her for whom he died. Fatal end of an ungoverned passion--virtuous in its object, but vicious in its excess! The corpse still remains in the house. Why should I part with it? None loved him better.