"Open the window, love—the air is stifling."
Rebecca felt cold with the chill midnight, but she opened the heavy curtains and the casement, when a flood of dazzling moonlight poured into the dim room, and put the faint lamp to shame. A large branch of a chestnut-tree waved to and fro, whose leaves seemed filled with music; a sweet breeze came from the garden below, but sweet as it was, Clinton inspired it with difficulty. By a strong effort he put his hand beneath the pillow, and drew thence a small black book with silver clasps.
"Take it, my child; till this hour it has been my constant companion. Rebecca, it is your mother’s Bible!"
Even as he spoke, his head sank on his daughter’s shoulder; she moved not till the cheek pressed to hers grew like ice. One fearful shriek, and the living sank insensible by the side of the dead. A week afterwards, a funeral train was seen slowly winding through the wreathing honey-suckle and drooping ash which formed the green and glad road. There were only the coffin-bearers and two mourners—an aged woman and a young one, the housekeeper and Rebecca were following Reginald Clinton to his last resting-place; and ever and anon, as the coffin passed and brushed the boughs, heavy with their luxuriant foliage, a shower of fragrant leaves fell,—as if Summer wept over the sorrowful procession.
