"You now understand," said the dying girl, "the reason why I could not hope for happiness in this world, even if I were to recover from my present illness,—and why death will be preferable to existence in a state of sorrow. How could I grope about in darkness, where I have been accustomed to feast my eyes with the beauties of nature and the wonderful fabrics raised by men? How could I consent to linger on in blindness in a world where there is so much to admire?" "Blindness!" echoed our hero: "impossible! You cannot mean what you say!" "Alas! it were a folly to jest upon one's death-bed," returned the young lady, with a deep sigh. "What I said ere now was the truth. The malady made giant strides to hurry me to the tomb: never had the physicians before known its ravages to proceed with such frightful celerity. It has left its traces upon my countenance—and it has deprived me of the blessing of sight. Oh! now I am hideous—a monster,—I know, I feel that I am,—revolting, disgusting," continued Mary-Anne, bitterly; "and not for worlds would I allow you to behold that face which once possessed some attraction." "The marks left by the scourge that has visited you will gradually become less apparent," said Richard, deeply afflicted by the tone, the manner, and the communications of the invalid; "and probably the eye-lids are but closed for a time, and can be opened again by the skill of a surgeon." "Never—never!" cried Mary-Anne, convulsively; and, taking Richard's hand, she carried it to her countenance. She placed his fingers upon her closed eye-lids. He touched them; they yielded to his pressure. The sockets of the eyes were empty. The eye-balls were gone! "Oh! wherefore art thou thus afflicted—thou who art so guiltless, so pure, so innocent?" exclaimed our hero, unable to contain his emotions. "Question not the will of the deity," said Mary-Anne. "I am resigned to die; and if, at times, a regret in favour of the world I am leaving enters my mind, or is made apparent in my language, I pray the Almighty to pardon me those transient repinings. Of the past it is useless now to think;—the present is here;—and the future is an awful subject for contemplation. But upon that I must now fix my attention!" Markham made no answer; and during the long silence which ensued, the dying girl was wrapt up in mental devotion. At length she said, "Give me your hand, Richard—and yours, Isabella." Her voice had now lost all its excitement; and her utterance was slow and languid. The lovers obeyed her desire. Mary-Anne placed their hands together, and said, "Be faithful to each other—and be happy." Richard and Isabella both wept plentifully. "Adieu, my kind—my dear friends," murmured Mary-Anne. "You must now leave me; and let my father come to receive the last wishes of his daughter." "Adieu, dearest Mary-Anne: we shall meet in heaven!" said Isabella, in a tone expressive of deep emotion. "We will never—never forget you," added Richard.