She opened her dark robe, and disclosed the snow-white dress which she wore beneath it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the beautiful form, the bosom which had once been the home of a pure and stainless love, and which had beat with the throb of sensual passion, were now attired in a shroud. "Behold me, attired for the grave," she said,--and the tears started to her eyes,--"This morning, resolved to quit this life, which for me, has been a life of unutterable shame and despair, I prepared for my departure. Everything is ready. Come, Ernest, and behold the preparations for my bridal,--" she pointed to the couch; he rose and followed her. "I am in love with death, and will wed him ere an hour is gone." She drew aside the curtains, and upon the white coverlet, Ernest beheld a dark object,--a coffin covered with black cloth, and glittering with a silver plate. "Everything is ready, Ernest, and I am going. Nay, do not weep, do not attempt to touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted thing,--a wreck, a miserable, miserable wreck! My touch would pollute you,--I am not worth your tears." Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the couch,--he writhed in agony. "You shall not die,--you must be saved!" he wildly exclaimed. She walked across the floor, with an even step; in a moment she was seated in the rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his face hidden in his hands. Her face grew paler every moment; her eyes brighter; and the shroud which enveloped her bosom, began to quiver, with the last pulsations of her dying heart. As the vail mingled its fleecy folds with her raven hair, she looked very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the touch of death. And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat before her, hiding his face, she talked in a calm, even tone,-- "O, life! life! you have been a bitter draught to me, and now I am about to leave you! All day I have been thinking of my shame, of my crimes,--I have summoned up every act of my life,--the images of the past have walked before me in a sad funeral procession. O, Thou, who didst forgive the Magdalene,--Thou who hadst compassion on the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside thine own,--Thou who dost know all my life, my temptations, and my crimes,--forgive! forgive! It is a wandering child, sick of wandering, who now,--O, Thou, all-merciful!--gathers up the wreck of a miserable life, and lays it, with all its sins and shame, at Thy feet." As she uttered this simple, yet awful prayer, Ernest did not raise his face. The agony which shook him was too deep for words. Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she went on, in a vague and rambling way--