It is a relief to me thus to unbosom myself.

Like Aenone--"while I speak of it, a little while, my heart may wander from its deeper woe." Min taught me to pray; and I _have_ prayed; but, the most fervent spirit that ever breathed out its conscience to its Maker could never hope to undo the past.
"O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory ?" It was all very well for him who had faced Azrael, and looked upon himself as a dying man, to speak thus! Beautiful as is the sentiment contained in the words, are they _true_?
I know that a brave man, one who does not credit an eternity and has not the slightest thought on the subject of future salvation or future punishment, can, when quitting the only world of his knowledge, look upon his approaching end with a courage and an apathetic calm which resemble the smiling fortitude wherewith the ancient gladiators uttered their parting salutations to Nero--when, in expectation, they waited for the fatal thumb to be turned down, in token of their doom.
I can well believe that an earnest Christian, likewise, regards his instant dissolution, with equanimity and, even joy--through contemplation of the everlasting happiness in which he devoutly trusts.
Still, how do both, the irreligious man and the hopeful believer, bear the loss of those dear to them--they themselves being left behind, forsaken, to grieve over their vacant chairs, their despoiled folds ?-- Has not Death his sting for them; the grave, its awful triumph ?-- I do not always speak like this, however; nor are my thoughts ever bitter and despairing.
"Fret not thyself," says the Psalmist, "lest thou be moved to do evil;" and, I try not to fret when I remember the message my darling left for me with Miss Pimpernell--who watched by her dying bed and told me what she had said, in her very own dear, dear words.

It is then that I haunt the old scenes with which her presence will ever be associated in my mind; and, weave over again the warp and woof of vanished days.
The trim market gardens dwindling down in the distance, thickly planted, as of yore; the winding country lanes intersecting, which twist and turn in every direction of the compass, and yet find their way down to the silent river that hurries by their outlets; the old stone, buildings, about whose origin we used to perplex ourselves--all remind me of her and happiness! The very scent of the hedgerows, a pot-pourri of honeysuckles and roses, and of red, pink and white hawthorn, brings back to me her sayings when we walked and talked together there--long, long ago, it seems, although it was but yesterday.
And, in the Prebend's Walk memory is more and more busy still, as I pace along its weary length solitary, alone--for, even my poor old dog had died during my absence; and what were those idle, fair-weather acquaintances, whom the world calls "friends," to me in my grief! I am better without their company: it makes my mind unhealthy .-- So, I walk, alone with my heart and its grief! The stately lime-trees bend as I pass them by; and, seem to sigh for her who is gone, never to return.

The ruined fosse, stagnant and moss- covered, speaks of ruin and desolation.

The crumbling walls that once encircled the Prebend's residence, also reveal the slowly-sure power of the destroyer's hand, more and more apparent each year that rolls over them.
But, the church, Norman--turretted and oaken-chancelled, is fullest of these bitter-sweet memories of my darling.
All its old-fashioned surroundings appear in keeping with my feelings:-- the carved galleries, the quaint, up-standing pulpit with its massive sounding board, the monumental tablets on the walls, the open-raftered roof; and, when, sitting in the high box-pew, where I first saw her, the organ gives forth its tremulous swell--before some piercingly pitched note from the _vox humana_ stop, cries out like a soul in agony like mine--I can almost believe I see her again sitting opposite me, her sweet madonna face bent down over her Bible, or upturned in adoration, as I then noticed it! I feel that her unseen presence is near me, watching me from the spirit world above; or else, hovering by me, to guide my errant footsteps on the pathway to heaven and lead my thoughts, through the recollection of her faith and purity, and love, to things on high.
Would that I felt her presence always:--would that my thoughts, my actions, my life, were such as she would have had them! It was after I had gone to the old church for the first time--it was weeks before I could have the resolution to go--that Miss Pimpernell gave me my darling's message; touching with a tender touch on her last moments here.
She told me she had never seen or heard of so peaceful an end as hers-- such fervent faith, such earnest reliance on her Saviour.