She leaned her head on Herbert’s bosom, and for some time remained silent; then looking up, said cheerfully, “Do you remember, Emmeline, when we were together some few years ago, we always said such a scene and hour as this only wanted music to make it perfect?  I feel as if all those fresh delightful feelings of girlhood had come over me again.  Bring your harp and sing to me, dearest, those words you read to me the other day.”

“Nay, Mary, will it not disturb you?” said Emmeline, kneeling by her couch, and kissing the thin hand extended to her.

“No, dearest, not your soft, sweet voice, it will soothe and give me pleasure.  I feel stronger and better to-night than I have done for some time.  Sing to me, but only those words, dear Emmy; all others would neither suit this scene nor my feelings.”

For a moment Emmeline hesitated, and looked towards her mother and Mrs. Greville.  Neither was inclined to make any objection to her request, and on the appearance of her harp, under the superintendence of Arthur, Emmeline prepared to comply.  She placed the instrument at the further end of the apartment, that the notes might fall softer on Mary’s ear, and sung, in a sweet and plaintive voice, the following words:—­

  “Remember me! ah, not with sorrow,
    ’Tis but sleep to wake in bliss. 
  Life’s gayest hours can seek to borrow
    Vainly such a dream as this.

  Ah, see, ’tis heaven itself revealing
    To my dimmed and failing sight;
  And hark! ‘tis angels’ voices stealing
    Through the starry veil of night.

  Come, brother, come; ah, quickly sever
    The cold links of earth’s dull chain;
  Come to thy home, where thou wilt never
    Pain or sorrow feel again.

  Come, brother, come; we spread before thee
    Visions of thy blissful home;
  Heed not, if Death’s cold pang come o’er thee,
    It will but bid thee haste and come!

  Ah, yes, I see bright forms are breaking
    Through the mist that veils mine eyes;
  Now gladly, gladly, earth forsaking,
    Take, oh, take me to the skies.

The mournful strain ceased, and there was silence.  Emmeline had adapted the words to that beautiful air of Weber’s, the last composition of his gifted mind.  Mary’s head still rested on the bosom of Herbert, her hand clasped his.  Evening was darkening into twilight, or the expression of her countenance might have been remarked as changed—­more spiritual, as if the earthly shell had shared the beatified glory of the departing spirit.  She fixed her fading eyes on Ellen, who was kneeling by her couch, steadily and calmly, but Ellen saw her not, for in that hour her eyes were fixed, as in fascination on the form of Herbert, as he bent over his beloved.  The dying girl saw that mournful glance, and a gleam of intelligence passed over her beautiful features.  She extended one hand to Ellen, who clasped it fondly, and then she tried to draw it towards Herbert.  She looked up in his face, as if to explain the meaning of the action, but voice and strength utterly failed, and Ellen’s hand dropped from her grasp.