"With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night-air, I rushed forth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in astonishment; but I heeded them not; I lifted the wet, dark locks from his forehead: more than living beauty rested upon it; but it was cold, icy cold,--so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed my hand upon his heart: but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips again and again, and wildly called him by name, and prayed that he would speak to me once, _only once_ more; but he answered not. They thought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and bear the body on; but I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming: 'You shall not separate us,--he is mine,--he is mine!' Then, suddenly, in thunder tones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears: 'He is not yours: your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost thou here?' and I fell senseless to the ground. "When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks upon the grave of Walter Elmore. "I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name has passed my lips, until this evening; but my brain whirls, even now, when I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a narrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the water beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some travellers, washed on shore some distance below. "I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I had given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely in jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even for one moment; but I,--oh! would to God that my spirit might but for once hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him, and implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last interview! "Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his rest; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a small annuity, which enabled me to purchase this cottage. Here I shall probably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime." Aunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and silently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way homewards. The next morning I left Elmwood. When I again revisited my early home, a plain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton. SUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE. A SONNET, TO "SIBYL." BY J. I. PEASE.