There, in the holy seclusion of her chamber, in the solemn stillness of night, she made the total renunciation of him she loved best on earth, scarcely feeling now she had lost him, in the lofty exaltation of her feelings.
It was finished at last. The pen dropped from her hand, and she arose to seek for the few gifts he had ever given her. A little golden locket, containing his likeness and a lock of his hair; her betrothal-ring; and the oft-mentioned gold cross. That was all.
She opened the likeness, and through all her heroism a wild, sharp thrill of anguish pierced her heart, as she gazed on those calm, beautiful features. The sable ring of hair twined itself round her fingers as though unwilling to leave her; but resolutely she replaced it, and drew off the plain gold circlet of their betrothal, and laid them side by side. Then her cross—it had never left her neck since the night he had placed it there. All the old tide of love swelled back to her heart as she gazed upon it. It seemed like rending her very heart-strings to take it off.
"I cannot! I cannot!" was her anguished cry, as her arm dropped powerless on the table.
"You must! you must! it is your duty!" cried the stern voice of conscience; and, with trembling fingers and blanched lips, the precious token was removed and laid beside the others.
Then, sealing them up, with one last, agonizing look, such as we might bestow on the face of a dear friend about to be consigned to the grave, she sealed and directed the packet, and then threw herself on her bed and pressed her hands over her eyes to hide out the face of her dead.
But in spite of sorrow, sleep will visit the afflicted, and a bright morning sunbeam fell like a halo on her pale face, calm in sleep, and on the golden eyelashes, still wet with undried tear-drops.
That same broad July sunbeam fell on Minnette lying prone on her face in the damp pine woods, her long, black hair and dark garments dropping with the soaking dew. The dark, lonely woods had been her couch the livelong night.