CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
"DEATH." O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun-- For ever and for ever with those just souls and true-- And what is life, that we should moan?
Why make we such ado?
What! Min dead--my darling whom I had hurried home to see once more, the whisper of whose calling I had heard across the expanse of vast Atlantic in eager entreaty; and whose tender, clinging affection I had looked forward to, as the earnest of all my toils and struggles, my longing hopes, my halting doubts, my groans, my tears! It could not be.
I would not believe it.

God could not be so cruel as man; and what man would do such a heartless deed?
It was false.

Could I not hear her merry, rippling laughter, as she came forth heart-joyous to greet me; see the dear, soul-lit, grey eyes beaming with happiness and love; feel her perfumed violet breath as she raised her darling little rosebud of a mouth to mine--as I had fancied, and pictured it all, over and over again, a thousand times and more?
Hark! was not that her glad voice speaking now in silvery accents--"O, Frank!" nothing more; but, a world of welcome in the simple syllables?
Dead! How could she be dead, when I was waiting to hear from her truth- telling, loving lips what she had written to tell me already--that she trusted me again, as she had trusted me in those old, old days that had passed by never to return; and, loved me still in spite of all?
Dead! It was a lie.

They wanted to deceive me.

They were joking with me! Min, my darling, dead?
It could not be.