It was after I had gone to the old church for the first time--it was weeks before I could have the resolution to go--that Miss Pimpernell gave me my darling's message; touching with a tender touch on her last moments here. She told me she had never seen or heard of so peaceful an end as hers-- such fervent faith, such earnest reliance on her Saviour. She seemed to have a presentiment from the first, of her death; and, when she was told there was no hope of her recovery, she only grieved for those she left behind; and for me and my disappointment, my old friend said, chief of all.-- "I know he will be sorry,"--she said at the last.--"But, tell him that I loved him and trusted him to the end. Tell him good-bye for me, and to be good--not for my sake only, but, for God's!" These were the last words she uttered. She died, Miss Pimpernell said, with a soft sigh of contentment and a smile of seraphic happiness on her face; and, the face of the dead girl--she added sobbing--looked like the face of an angel in its purity and innocence, and with the stamp of heaven on its lifeless clay. She is buried in the churchyard where she and I so often mused and spoke of those who had gone before--little thinking that _she_ would be so soon taken, and _I_, left desolate to mourn her loss. Her grave is a perfect little garden. Loving eyes watch it, loving hands tend it. A little, green, velvet- turfed mound is in the midst, planted round with all the flowers that she loved--snowdrops and violets in the early part of the year, roses and lilies in summer, little daisies always--for she used to say she liked them because others generally despised them. I go there twice a day, morning and night. Her mother knows of my visits; but, we never meet, even there! She does not interfere with me; and _I_ have buried the feud of the past in Min's grave. _There_ my heart finds only room for love and grief, ebbing and flowing in unison; coupled with a hope, which becomes more and more assured, now that I have received her message, that we shall yet meet again in that promised land where there is no death and no parting, only a sweet forgetfulness of the ills of life, and a remembrance of all its joy--the happy land of which my dream foretold in the early days of our love. When I breathe the bloom of the flowers that rise from my darling's resting-place in the early summer time, I almost experience peace! Her sainted presence _must_ be watching over me, I am convinced; and, my soul expands with a desire and a resolve, so to guard my life, that I may hereafter obtain "the crown incorruptible" that now, I know, she's wearing! This is in summer. But, in winter--winter which is connected by a thousand close and closer associations with her, I cannot so be content!-- It was at Christmas tide that I first spoke to her:--Christmas when we parted. On Christmas-eve we were to have met again:--it was Christmas when she died-- --In winter?-- _Ay de mi_!