a daughter whose life had been devoted to her mother, to whom she was all in all, in whom had lived as bright and pure a spirit as ever breathed.'
The remains of Julia Kavanagh rest in the Catholic Cemetery at Nice. A marble monument, consisting of a small cairn of stones with a cross above, marks the spot. There is a short inscription, and a text in French: "She rests from her labours, and her works do follow her."
Thus died Julia Kavanagh in her fifty-third year, after a life of unremitting literary labour. To one so deeply religious as she was there was no terror in this sudden call. In "Nathalie," the dying girl, Rose, says to her sister—"Oh, why, at any age, is death made so very awful? Why were the scythe, the skeleton, the grim visage, given as attributes to this gentle deliverer? I would have him an angel, calm, pitying, and sad, but beautiful, no king of terrors. A deliverer he is, for does he not sever the subtle yet heavy chain which links the spirit to the flesh, life to clay? Do you remember that passage in the service when, after the Hosanna has been sung, the choir raise their voices and sing Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. (Blessed be he who cometh in the name of the Lord). From my earliest years those words produced a strange impression on me. As a child, I wondered what glorious messenger from heaven was thus solemnly greeted by those of earth.
