He had all this time unconsciously held Clary’s letter strained in his hand; and as his thoughts flowed back to her he longed intensely to read it.  The visit of the good chaplain, who brought with him a light, afforded him the opportunity he so much desired.

A strange awe came over him as he unfolded the paper.  The hand that had traced it was no longer of earth; the spirit that had dictated it was removed to another sphere.  Yet he fancied, as he read the paper, that the soft blue eyes of Clary looked into his own; that her bright golden locks fanned his feverish cheek; that she was actually before him.  Several times he started and looked up into the face of the chaplain before he could dispel the vision.

       “Anthony, Dear Anthony, (she wrote.)

“This will meet you at a time when sorrow for my death will be lost in joy, that we shall so soon meet in heaven.  Fear not, Anthony; that hour may be far distant.  God is just.  You are innocent; trust in him.  Trust firmly, nothing wavering, and he will save you.  I have wept for you, prayed for you; would that I could die for you!  My soul has been poured forth in tears; but never for one moment have I abused our holy friendship by imagining you guilty.  Weep not for me, dear Anthony; I am happy.  God is taking me from the evil to come, from the anguish of seeing you the husband of another.  Death has no sting; I welcome him as a friend.

“Why should I dread thee, Death? 
Stern friend in solemn guise;
One pause of this frail breath,
And then the skies!

“When restored to peace, to happiness, and to Juliet, think kindly of me.  Remember how I loved you—­how I delighted in all that delights and interests you.  But not in crowded halls would I have you recall my image;—­my heart was solitary amidst the dust and rubbish of the gay world.  But in spring, when the earth is bright with flowers, when the sun looks down in love upon creation, when the full streams are flowing on with a voice of joy, when the song of birds makes glad the forest-bowers, when every blade of grass is dressed in beauty, and every leaf and flower glows with the light of life, and the unsophisticated untried heart of youth breathes forth its ardent aspiration to the throne of God—­then, Anthony, think of me.  My spirit will hover about your path; my voice will murmur in the breeze; and the recollection of what I was, of all my faith and love, will be dear to your heart.

“When these eyes, long dimm’d with weeping,
In the silent dust are sleeping;
When above my lowly bed
The breeze shall wave the thistle’s head,

                                      Thou wilt think of me, love!

“When the queen of beams and showers
Comes to dress the earth with flowers;
When the days are long and bright,
And the moon shines all the night,

                                    Thou wilt think of me, love!