I sat down on the long grass, and leaning my head on my clasped hands, watched the drops as they fell from my dropping hair on the mossy rock below.
"Is it not too damp for you here ?" I knew Richard Clyde was by me,--I heard his light footsteps on the sward, but I did not look up.
"It is not as damp as the grave will be," I answered.
"Don't talk so, Gabriella, don't.

I cannot bear to hear you.

This will be all over soon, and it will be to you like a dark and troubled dream." "Yes; I know it will be all over soon.

We shall all lie in the churchyard together,--Peggy, my mother, and I,--and you will plant a white rose over my mother's grave, will you not?
Not over mine.

No flowers have bloomed for me in life,--it would be nothing to place them over my sleeping dust." "Gabriella! You are excited,--you are ill.