“Let us advance,” said Miss Peyton, with a firmness her face belied; “they must respect our sex.”
“They shall,” cried Isabella, taking the lead in the enterprise. Frances was left alone with her sister. A few minutes were passed in silence, when a loud crash, in the upper apartments, was succeeded by a bright light that glared through the open door, and made objects as distinct to the eye as if they were placed under a noonday sun. Sarah raised herself on her bed, and staring wildly around, pressed both her hands on her forehead, endeavoring to recollect herself.
“This, then, is heaven—and you are one of its bright spirits. Oh! how glorious is its radiance! I had thought the happiness I have lately experienced was too much for earth. But we shall meet again; yes—yes—we shall meet again.”
“Sarah! Sarah!” cried Frances, in terror; “my sister—my only sister—Oh! do not smile so horridly; know me, or you will break my heart.”
“Hush,” said Sarah raising her hand for silence; “you may disturb his rest—surely, he will follow me to the grave. Think you there can be two wives in the grave? No—no—no; one—one—one—only one.”
Frances dropped her head into the lap of her sister, and wept in agony.
“Do you shed tears, sweet angel?” continued Sarah, soothingly. “Then heaven is not exempt from grief. But where is Henry? He was executed, and he must be here too; perhaps they will come together. Oh! how joyful will be the meeting!”
Frances sprang on her feet, and paced the apartment. The eye of Sarah followed her in childish admiration of her beauty.
“You look like my sister; but all good and lovely spirits are alike. Tell me, were you ever married? Did you ever let a stranger steal your affections from father, and brother, and sister? If not, poor wretch, I pity you, although you may be in heaven.”
“Sarah—peace, peace—I implore you to be silent,” shrieked Frances, rushing to her bed, “or you will kill me at your feet.”