MY FRIENDS AND I: MEMORIES.
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��rene, who came from afar to lay down their lives, and thereby expiate their sins in endeavoring to wrest the sepulcher from unholy hands ; from the possession of the " Camel driver of Mecca."
But I am getting along slowly with my memories. I must hasten to tell you. This was the last I heard from the wan- derer, and when weeks lengthened into months and no tidings came of him, I could but conclude he had, in some of his lonely ramblings, fallen a victim to Bedouin rapacity, and thought his pil- grimage ended in that sunny land.
I saw Ellen Burton but twice during all this time, and once was to convey a message from her noble lover. It was indeed painful to mark the change these months had wrought. She was no longer the happy, light-hearted girl of former times. The bloom of health had faded from those rosy cheeks, and brightness from her eye. Her step was no longer elastic, but lingering, and her friends saw her less frequently among them ; and it began to be whispered that she was going by the dark road. Few knew wherefore she pined and faded, but she was dying, the doctor said, and he should know, for he was their old family physi- cian, and was skilled and wise. The fa- ther knew whereof she was dying, and he sighed as the great waves of his ago- ny rolled over his soul. Also he would give all of his possessions to be able to turn back the events of past months, or stem the consequences of that tide of circumstances; but he knew he could not, and that is why the iron frame shook with suppressed grief.
It was in October; a golden day near its close; one of those brightest of In- dian Summer days, when the whole world is as radiant as a gleam of Heaven. I had been all day revelling amid the scenes of summer-garnered sunshine glories ; riding over the hills toward the valley whereof you know.
A message came for me, and I knew instantly whence it came, and whereof, and I went immediately to the home of the Burtons, for I knew I was called to the bedside of the dying girl. I hardly waited to be announced, and waving cer-
��emony, passed quietly, following the servant, to the sick room.
Many eyes were red with weeping; the members of the family were stand- ing around the bed, and the old doctor scattering his words of comfort. There were circles of sad-eyed friends about the room, watching that young spirit pluming itself for heavenly flight. I was motioned to the bedside, and taking gently in mine the withered hand of the pale form, I stooped to catch in broken whispers : —
"Tell Will, if you ever meet him, I will remember our tryst."
This was all; and closing again those dimmed eyes she seemed quietly sleep- ing.
A window was opened toward the river, and once, when the breeze came in, bearing with it a murmur of waters and a sighing of the wind among the old pines near the house, a smile lighted up her calm face, and the lips moved, and we knew the listening soul was charmed into lingering by the familiar melody ; but again the eyelids drooped and the sunny ej'e was closed, but the lips still smiled sweetly as if pressed by the kisses of angels ; and the angels were glad, for they were again welcom- ing to their number a loved one so long a wanderer from her native heaven.
I was standing near the door opening into the broad hall, and gazing listlessly out upon the hillside, now tinged with the last rays of the setting sun. The shadows up the glen were growing deep- er and more gloomy; the brooklet laughed not, but tinkled sorrowfully; the winds up among the pines and the old rocks whispered mournfully, for they were lisping to each other the sad story.
The servant announced a stranger, and at the instant, unceremoniously but qui- etly, a dark form glided past, and I looked to see, kneeling at the couch of the silent sleeper, one whom I did not at first recognize. The nerveless hand was held oairessingly in his, and the pale lips erewhile so lifeless, were pressed with the warm kisses of love. There were no words around that wondering
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