complied with, and when they had retired, she signified her wish to partake of the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper with her children. Major Clifton was constrained to decline, upon conscientious scruples; for how could he partake of the Sacrament of peace and brotherly love, with his heart consumed with indignation against his newly-married bride? Catherine, however, participated in the Holy Communion, while he looked on with surprise, mixed with a degree of horror. When the sacred rite was over, the minister of God took an affectionate leave, and departed. When the minister was gone, and they were left alone together, the dying mother beckoned her son and daughter to come and sit near her. They obeyed her, and she addressed them a few words of earnest, affectionate counsel, blessed them, and resigned herself to rest. Her eyelids closed calmly, and her breathing was gentle and regular; they had to mark attentively before they knew that it grew fainter and fainter. Once she opened her eyes, and, smiling her old, reflecting smile, said— “Dear Archer, I have often tried to detect the exact moment of falling asleep. I watch now, to see if I can seize the precise instant of passing from mortal to immortal life.” And she closed her eyes again. After a few minutes, she said— “Sing to me, dear Kate! You know—Heber’s death hymn.” Catherine bent and kissed the pallid lips of the dying woman, and then her voice arose, sweet, clear and spiritual as angels’ songs, in that immortal requiem— “Vital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame; Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying— Hark! they whisper, angels say— Sister spirit, come away— At the end of the first stanza, she murmured, faintly— “Your voice, too, dear Archer.” His voice arose now in unison with Catherine’s, and they sang the remainder— “The world recedes—it disappears: Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears With sounds seraphic ring. Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly! Oh, grave, where is thy victory? Oh, death, where is thy sting?” They ceased, and looked upon the marble face before them. It was still in death, but there remained upon the countenance the impress of the ecstatic smile with which the spirit had taken its flight— “Her death Was like the setting of a planet mild.” CHAPTER XXXI. THE POISON WORKS. ’Tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of the Nile.—SHAKSPEARE.