The sun was just sinking behind the blue undulation of the distant hills, and a mellow, golden lustre calmly settled on the level plain around us.

It lighted up her pallid features with a kind of unearthly glow, similar to that which rested on the marble monuments gleaming through the weeping willows.

Every thing looked as serene and lovely, as green and rejoicing, as if there were no such things as sickness and death in the world.
My mother's eyes wandered slowly over the whole inclosure, shut in by the plain white railing, edged with black,--gleamed on every gray stone, white slab, and green hillock,--rested a moment on me, then turned towards heaven, with such an expression! "Not yet, my mother, oh, not yet!" I cried aloud in an agony that could not be repressed, clinging to Dr.Harlowe's arm as if every earthly stay and friend were sliding from my grasp.

I knew the meaning of that mute, expressive glance.

She was measuring her own grave by the side of Peggy's clay cold bed,--she was commending her desolate orphan to the Father of the fatherless, the God of the widow.