That expression deepened on her face. She lifted her hands feebly, and, understanding the sign, he raised her to his bosom. The muslin drapery of her sleeve got entangled in his dress. I attempted to disengage it while her face lay on his bosom. In doing this I touched her hand; the frail fingers clasped mine with the tenacious feebleness of an infant's; and, laying my palm on Mr. Lee's hand, she pressed them softly together, whispering,-- "Be good to her." He shook all over, while my poor hand lay quivering on his. I drew it away with hushed breath. She was dying on his bosom; her eyes were uplifted to his; her breath came in faint gasps; the two frail hands folded themselves; and, as the mists of night settle on a lily, that dear face hardened into the marble of death. I cannot remember all that passed after this, who came into the room, or who went out. I only know that the stillness of death was in the house, the pain of life in our hearts. Sweet sufferer, gentle lady! How white and still she lay on the pretty French bed, with its volumes of lace brooding over her like the clouds in which we imagine seraphs to be sleeping! There was no noisy grief in the room. Even Mrs. Dennison had fled to her own apartment; the suddenness of our calamity shocked even her. Lottie knelt by the bed, her face buried in the clothes, dumb and still. Jessie clung to her father, who was striving to comfort her; but struggle against it as he would, the force of a mighty anguish spoke out in his broken words. Those were mournful days during which she lay in that tower-room. We had the dead to ourselves--that woman never intruded on us. Cora came each day informing us that her mistress was ill from grief. _He_ heard the message, but gave no sign beyond a grave inquiry. The sadness in his face deepened every hour; stern thoughts perhaps had stamped the sorrow deeply in his soul. There was something more than natural grief there; gleams of remorse broke through all the rest. The night before Mrs. Lee was buried, I went into her room; to sleep was impossible, and I longed to be alone with her once more. I am no enthusiast, and have little superstition, but it seems to me impossible to doubt that the dead are often with us on this side the eternal shore. We feel their presence in our heart of hearts without caring to see it with the sense. How young she looked--how good and quiet! Some white flowers lay on the pillow with rich colors burning in their hearts, that cast a sort of illumination over the frozen stillness of her face. The white draperies gathered above her, the shaded lights stealing like star-gleams through the room, made the stillness of death holy!