As she gazed down upon the appalling sight, her heart seemed ready to burst with the grief that had no utterance, and she fell insensible to the floor.
When Miriam opened her eyes, they rested upon the forms of her aunt and of Salathiel bending over her.
“Was this well, Salathiel? Could you not have spared me one day for grief, must my affections for another be outraged, even in the presence of his passing remains?”
“Miriam, my cousin,” said Salathiel, “I came in hither only to assist your aunt. No selfish feeling brought me into your presence. I know where your affections are, I know how deep-seated is your grief. Let me rather, my Miriam, be to you a means of consolation, than an occasion of offence, since my love to your person is less than my sympathy in your grief.”
Miriam placed her hand in that of Salathiel, and a gentle pressure signified her appreciation of his feelings—and such a sign, at such a moment, too, told him how hopeless would be his love. He obeyed the sign.
“The funeral has passed on,” said she.
“It is now near the gate of the city,” said Salathiel.
“We shall see it once more,” said Miriam, “as it ascends the hill that overlooks the valley of tombs.”
“What is that faith, Miriam,” asked her aunt, “of which you spoke to me yesterday?”
“It is but confidence in the promises and power of the teacher.”