When Mary raised his head from his breast, his eyes were vailed in the glassy film of death. Leaning upon the arm which never yet failed to support the weary head and the tired heart, gazing upon the face which always looks its ineffable consolation, into the face of the dying, Cornelius had passed away as calmly as a child sinking to sleep upon a mother's faithful breast. Mary and Nameless, on their knees before the corse, clasped those death-chilled hands, and wept in silence. And the winter sun, shining bright upon the window-pane, fell upon their bowed heads, and upon the tranquil face of the dead father, around whose lips a smile was playing, as though some word of "good cheer" had been whispered to him, by angel-tongues, in the moment ere he passed away. And thou art dead, brave artist, and life's battle with thee is over,--the eyes that used to look so manfully upon every phase of sorrow and adversity, are all cold and lusterless now,--the heart that generous emotions filled and lofty conceptions warmed, sleeps pulseless in the lifeless bosom. Thou art dead!--dead in the dreary home of Want, with cold winter light upon thy gray hairs. Dead! Ah, no,--not dead, for there is a PRESENCE in the dismal garret, invisible to external eyes, which puts Death to shame, and upon the gates of the grave writes, in letters of undying light:--_In all the universe of God there is no such thing as death, but simply a transition from one life, or state of life, to another._ Not dead, brave artist. Thou hast not, in a long life, cherished affections, gathered experience from the bitter tree of adversity, and developed, in storm as well as sunshine, thy clear, beautiful intellect, merely to bury them all in the dull grave at last. No,--thou hast borne affections, experience, and intellect, to the genial sunshine of the better land. The coffin-lid of this life has been lifted from thy soul,--thou art risen, indeed,--at last, in truth, THOU LIVEST! And the PRESENCE which fills thy dark chamber now, although often mocked by the gross interpretations of a brutal theology, often hid from the world by the Gehenna smoke of conflicting creeds, is a living Presence, always living, always loving, always bringing the baptism of consolation to the way-worn children of this life, even as it did in the hour when, embodied in a human form, face to face and eye to eye, it spoke to man. The sun is high in the wintery heavens, and his light, streaming through the window-pane, falls upon the mattress, whereon, covered reverently, by the white sheet, the corse is laid. Mary is crouching there, one hand supporting her forehead, the other resting upon the open book, which is placed upon her knee. Thus all day long she watches by the dead. At last the flush of evening is upon the winter sky. Nameless, standing by the window, tears open the letter of Frank, and reads it by the wintery light. The three hours have passed.