the face of the dead, ere it goes out to a dreadful darkness.

She is disrobed, and has laid down at our bidding. She is docile and childlike, so tired out. I bend over to kiss her now pale face. She thanks me for loving her.

She has turned her face from me--and sleeps.

I kneel beside her. "O God! let no infidel whisper disturb the calmness of her repose. Send thy angels to minister to her. Let them bring sweet memories of her childhood; pure dreams of her infant days when she clasped her hands and answered, "Lord! here am I."

96318B

CHAPTER XIV.

IRENE AND HER HARP.

"The bird retains his silver note

Though bondage chains his wing!

His song is not a happy one,

I'm saddest when I sing."

THE morning that followed this exciting scene that I have failed to describe, and to do so justly would be impossible, found Irene pale, quiet, and suffering from headache. It was raining so hard that we could not think of looking out of doors for amusement. At this time I was in constant association with Mrs. Searle and with her adopted daughter; my husband had gone farther North, and, at Mrs. Searle's urgent solicitation, I consented to remain in New York until his return.

At about noon, Mrs. Searle, against Irene's wishes, sent for a physician, who prescribed perfect repose, and his advice happened to correspond with Irene's wishes; she was not inclined to converse, and when we spoke to her, answered us by a word, or not at

all. Mrs. Searle, convinced at last of the propriety of informing Mr. Hamilton of the alarming condi. tion of his daughter, wrote him fully on the subject, and left him to decide what it was proper to do. In the mean time, until she could hear from him, she consented to gratify me, by going home with us, where Irene would hear spiritualism mentioned only in condemnation. I tried to induce Irene to look for pleasure in a visit to the South, and assured her that my daughter, who was her own age, would regard her as a sister; but though she offered no objections to our plans, she took no interest in them, and the hope that I might influence her and be of service to her, was dying away.

Towards the close of the day, she was evidently brighter, and, at my suggestion, got up and dressed for the evening that we were to pass quietly in Mrs. Searle's private parlor. Several friends assembled there, and the Professor came, as usual; he had been deserted by his wife, who had gone to pass a sociable evening with the ghost of Napoleon Bonaparte. The Professor looked grave, though he was most affectionate in his manner to Irene, who was much attached to him. I sighed, as I thought the time might be gone forever, when his influence over her could be for her good. Irene, languid and perfectly quiet, sat on a small sofa, and by her the Professor established himself; at first, he tried to draw her

into conversation, but soon perceiving that she was annoyed by his attention, he let her alone. Irene's harp, that Mrs. Searle had sent from Boston to the St. Nicholas, stood in the corner; it had been untouched since it came. I had the greatest wish to hear Irene play, for I had heard much of her genius for music. Towards the close of the evening I went to her, and proposed that she should gratify me; she refused at first, but seeing me very anxious, she crossed the room to where the harp was standing. Before this, she had seemed almost angry when any one asked her to play. Now, she stood for a moment by the instrument, then passed her fingers over the untuned strings.

She was dressed in white, and the lily of the valley drooped, as usual, in her hair. I told her once that she had been reading the Blithedale romance, and, like Zenobia, she had chosen and always wore her emblem; but she said, that from a child she had always dressed her hair with lilies, her mother used to gather and put them there. I was affected by the simplicity with which she accounted for her fondness for this simple ornament.

She stood tuning the harp, and looking most lovely as she touched string after string, bringing, by the touch, harmony from discord. Sweeter and more perfect became the chords, until she swept over them a skilful hand, now and again detecting a

slight imperfection of sound that could not escape

her ear.

"Irene," said the Professor to me, "is most beautiful when tuning her harp. She is the very impersonation of harmony, the throned queen of music. Standing there, across this great room, looks she not like a siren from under the sea? with those flowing robes white like its foam. If she live and recover from this sickness, if sickness it may be, Irene will be the perfect woman; if she love, she will love once and forever. Yet, she will never enslave herself to lover or husband, for she has naturally an independence of mind that every woman ought to possess. The pressure of disease has enfeebled this, but I trust that her dignity of character will reassert itself. So far, she has known no thought of Love; the love of her scattered or broken family; the love of books, of the arts, of nature, these have been all in all to her. I wish she did love some man worthy of her; it would be an anchor that would steady her affections. What a scene that was last night! how she suffered! it was a nervous excitement, bewilderment, derangement. I am ready to renounce spiritualism when I think of it. Hear that magnificent prelude !"

We listened as she performed piece after piece of the most brilliant music. She was not playing for others, but for herself, and she threw her whole soul