A very few weeks elapsed before the dreaded truth forced itself upon the minds of all, even on her mother, that Mary was sinking, surely sinking, there was no longer hope.  Devotedly as her friends loved her, they could not sorrow, before her they could not weep.  She was spared all bodily suffering save that proceeding from debility, so extreme she could not walk across the room without assistance.  No pain distorted the expression of her features, which, in this hour of approaching death, looked more lovely than they had ever seemed before; her soft blue eye beamed at times with a celestial light, and her fair hair shaded a brow and cheek so transparent, every blue vein could be clearly seen.  One thought alone gave her pain, her Herbert she felt was still unprepared.

He was speaking one day of the future, anticipating the time when the Rectory would receive her as its gentle mistress, and of the many things which occupied his thoughts for the furtherance of her comfort, when Mary laid her hand gently on his arm, and, with a smile of peculiar sweetness, said—­

“Do not think any more of such things, my beloved; the mansion which will behold our blessed union is already furnished and prepared; I may seek it first, but it will be but to render it even yet more desirable to you.”

Herbert looked on her face to read the meaning of her words; he read them, alas! too plainly, but voice utterly failed.

“Look not on me thus,” she continued, in that same pleading and soothing tone.  “Our mansion is prepared for us above; below, my Herbert, oh, think not it will ever receive me.  Why should I hesitate to speak the truth?  The blessed Saviour, to whose arms I so soon shall go, will give you strength to bear this; He hath promised that He will, my own Herbert, my first, my only love.  My Saviour calls me, and to Him, oh, can you not without tears resign me?”

“Mary,” murmured the unhappy Herbert, “Mary, oh, do not, do not torture me.  You will not die; you will not leave me desolate.”

“I shall not die, but live, my beloved—­live, oh, in such blessedness! ’tis but a brief, brief parting, Herbert, to meet and love eternally.”

“You are ill, you are weak, my own Mary, and thus death is ever present to your mind; but you will recover, oh, I know, I feel you will.  My God will hear my prayers.”

“And He will grant them, Herbert—­oh, doubt Him not, grant them, even in my removal.  He takes me not from you, my Herbert, He but places me, where to seek me, you must look to and love but Him alone; and will you shrink from this?  Will that spirit, vowed to His service from your earliest boyhood, now murmur at His will?  Oh, no, no; my Herbert will yet support and strengthen his Mary, I know, I feel he will.  Forgive me if I have pained you, my best love; but I could bear no other lips than mine to tell you, that on earth I may not live—­but a brief space more, and I shall be called away.  You must not mourn for me, my Herbert; I die so happy, oh, so very happy!”