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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 148 pages of information about The Young Seigneur.
had been through life the wearied sufferer lay in death, white tuberoses pressing her poor thin cheek—­one purity affectionate to another.  Ah, it was a vision.  I never saw one on whom Heaven loved so constantly to breathe sweetness.  Neither health could roughen her beauty nor sickness drive it away:  for the soul, after all, will shine through the body, will lift it up, and if glorious will leave it worthy of itself.

* * * * *

Alas, ungovernable, passionate grief!  Alas the sight of heart-broken friends and painful rites of burial, the anguish of bereavement, the irresistible longing to die and be with her;—­and Quinet’s grief also; for then he had confessed that he had loved her too.

* * * * *

And now we who knew her recognise that she was sent into this world for a season, and tenderly watched and favored of heaven for high purposes—­for the stirring example and strong influence of a short but lofty life.

In moments of weakness the irresistible longing to go to her returns upon me, but it is she whose Athene vision impels to throw it off, to stand ground firmly and push forward with determination towards the years which must be endured, and the glorious work which calk to be achieved.  Canada, beloved, thy cause is led by an angel!

* * * * *

What of Quinet?  Noble friend, when I gave way unlike a man (though that is with God, who knows how much hearts can bear); he it was who held his own despair sternly back and put out efforts to solace and quiet mine.  In these years he has grown stronger, but become ascetic towards the outer world—­an Ishmaelite who cares not to own himself a son of Abraham, but lives wild in the deserts of philosophy on locusts and wild honey.  He will never marry, but has devoted himself to the problems of the Secret of the World, in which he too believes, though his studies have led him far more scientifically than me; and yet in his hours of thought, I know that a vision of beauty and a sweet voice will often startle him, and he rises then into scenes of his loftiest, grandest life.  O, Alexandra!  Alexandra!

CONCLUSION OF CHAMILLY HAVILAND’S NARRATIVE.

CHAPTER XLV.

NOT THE END.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

—­PS.  CXIV.

When Chrysler came to this sad close of the story, he woke from his absorption in the manuscript and became conscious of, the surroundings.  The late hour, the strange place, even the silent-burning candles, and above all the shock of grief for Chamilly at his great bereavement, oppressed him into deep loneliness.  The wind dashed gusts of rain against the casement and shook it savagely.  He thought of the storm and blackness without—­how the tempest must be hounding the black waves—­the wolfish ferocity of their onward rushes—­the dread battle any mortal would fight who found himself among them on a night like this.

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