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’Tis well—my soul shakes off its load of care; ’Tis only the obscure is terrible; Imagination frames events unknown, In wild, fantastic shapes of hideous ruin, And what its fears creates.—Hannah More. |
Upon the snow-white bed the form of Rosa Blondelle, wrapped in pure white raiment, was laid out. Very peaceful and beautiful she looked, her fair face, framed in its pale gold hair, wearing no sign of the violent death by which she died.
At her head sat Sybil, looking very pale, and shedding silent tears.
At her feet sat Miss Tabby, whimpering and muttering.
Within the little nursery, beyond the chamber, the Scotch girl sat, crying and sobbing.
Lyon Berners softly approached the bed, and whispered to Sybil.
“Dearest, come out, I wish to speak to you.”
She silently arose and followed him. He was silent until they had reached their own room.
“Sit down, Sybil,” he then said, as calmly as he could force himself to speak.
She sank into a seat and looked at him inquiringly, but fearlessly.