'But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part—
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
'When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished too;—
Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love,
Come, brightly waiting through the gloom,
Our peace-branch from above!
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright,
With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.'"
The head weighed upon her arm, she did not withdraw it Scarcely breathing herself, she listened to the regular respiration, that said the distempered brain was locked in forgetfulness. One—two—three hours—and a cold lifelessness succeeded to the smart and aching suspended circulation had first produced, a torpor, creeping to her shoulder—affecting her whole body; but she would not terminate that blessed slumber. A fleet step ascended the stairs,—it did not belong to any of the household, yet was not strange. A knock—which she could not answer—the bolt was cautiously drawn.
"Helen!" said her brother's voice.
The "hush-sh-sh!" silenced him, but he entered. The moon revealed the dark and white forms upon the bed.
"Your sister sleeps!" said Ida, under her breath. "I beg you to retire—she must not see you. Oh! go!" for she was awaking.
"Ida!" said Mrs. Read; "what am I doing here? Oh! mercy! I remember!"
"Peace! peace!" and with gentle violence, Ida forced her back to the pillow. "You are safe and well now."