And the grave-yard twilight brightened into starry night--the softest, balmiest Southern night--and three watched by the bedside, for Doctor Constant came, too, to share that vigil, in the strong, friendly love he felt for the man who had worked so bravely for the death-stricken in that doomed city. Hand in hand Gracie and the mother watched, each torn with the agony of dread, for Grace had taken him into her deep heart as a dear and faithful brother, and felt that one more pleasure would be buried for her in Willard Clendenon's early grave. So the hours wore on; the mystic midnight came--passed--and in the morning they _knew_. "It is the will of God," Doctor Constant said, holding the weeping mother's hand fast in his, and speaking in the strong assurance and resignation of a Christian faith. "He is wise and just, and knows the right better than you or I, dear friend. Be strong, for the end is near; the angels will come for him at sunset." * * * * * "Willard, dear son, there is a letter from your sister that she wished you to read. Are your eyes strong enough, or shall I read it for you?" Lying back among his pillows, as white as they, very much wasted, with the dark curls waving back from the high, pale brow, and a very quiet peace in his grave, sweet eyes, Willard takes that letter, and reads it, slowly and painfully through. A dimness crosses his vision as he holds it more than once, and a remembrance comes to him as he notes the clear, running chirography, of how his own hand once guided the little fingers that traced these lines in their first labored efforts to write. But the light of a very sweet content irradiates his face as he turns its pages. If there is aught that can heighten the content of these, his dying hours, it is the story that is told in the pages of his sister's letter--the fair and tenderly loved young sister whom he will see no more until, as redeemed souls, they clasp each other on the sunny shores that are laved by the surf rolling up from the shadowless river. "We part forever?--o'er my soul is sadness, No more the music of thy voice shall glide Low with deep feeling till a passionate gladness Thrilled to each tone, and in wild tears replied. "'We meet in Paradise!' To hallowed duty Here with a loyal, a heroic heart, Bind we our lives--that so divinest beauty May bless that heaven where naught our souls can part." CHAPTER XXVIII. LULU TO HER MOTHER. "The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven--because it never ends." --BYRON. "LONDON, ENG., April 3, 1874