It was autumn. The leaves fell from the trees; the grave, severe clergyman sat by the bedside of a dying person; a pious believer closed her eyes—it was the clergyman's own wife.
"If any one find peace in the grave, and grace from God, then it is thou," said the clergyman, and he folded her hands, and read a psalm over the dead body.
And she was borne to the grave: two heavy tears trickled down that stern man's cheeks; and it was still and vacant in the parsonage; the sunshine within was extinguished:—she was gone.
It was night. A cold wind blew over the clergyman's head; he opened his eyes, and it was just as if the moon shone into his room. But the moon did not shine. It was a figure which stood before his bed—he saw the spirit of his deceased wife. She looked on him so singularly afflicted; it seemed as though she would say something.
The man raised himself half erect in bed, and stretched his arms out towards her.
"Not even to thee is granted everlasting peace. Thou dost suffer; thou, the best, the most pious!"
And the dead bent her head in confirmation of his words, and laid her hand on her breast.
"And can I procure you peace in the grave?"
"Yes!" it sounded in his ear.