Long did Arthur gaze with that same look of wild, unutterable agony, upon the spot which contained all to which his young heart had clung with such fond adoration; all for which he had borne mockery and insult; all that to him was fair, or beautiful, or loved on earth.
Turning to Mrs. Williams, in a hollow voice, he asked, “Why has God taken my sister from me?”
“Because she would be better off, Arthur.”
“Why did he not take me, too? I would be better off in the still grave.”
“It is wicked to say such things, Arthur.”
“Why wicked?” asked he, with an inquiring look.
“Because, God will be angry with you.”
“He is angry with me already,” murmured he, turning from the spot.
The heavy clock told the hour of midnight; silence hung heavily over the slumbering earth. In a small room sat Arthur. The look of agony had settled down into one of calm, hopeless misery. And as he gazed upon the stars, his guardian angel hovered near—no smile played round its radiant face, but tear-drops sparkled in its eyes. Around his brow glowed the beings of intellect; some, in their flight, mounted toward those shining orbs, while others floated near to earth, as if in search of something, they knew not what. Love, too, was there, followed by the bright beings of adoration. To and fro they moved, apparently without an aim; while the ministers of flesh poured incense on unhallowed altars, to obscure their vision and lure them to earth.