“Arthur, are you willing to die, are you happy?” whispered a sobbing voice, while a pearly tear fell upon his brow.
“Oh, joy inconceivable! Happiness that mortals ne’er can know! But see’st thou that bright seraph? It is Amy—her arms stretched forth to meet me. And my mother—she is pouring blessings on thy head! Ellen, sister—friends farewell—we meet again.”
And as they grasped his icy hands, the spirit freed, was borne upon the rapturous wings of the awaiting angels to the realms of bliss.
“Dear Ellen,” said Lucy, as they were seated together one pleasant morn, “why did you refuse the hand of Dr. Warner? I am sure he is talented, pious, and every thing one’s heart could wish. Then, you know, he loves you for your own worth, and not your wealth, for he has enough of that already.”
“What makes you suppose that I have refused him, coz?” said Ellen, a bright blush suffusing her cheek.
“Simply, appearances. As you say such secrets should not be revealed, I do not expect to get much information from yourself,” was Lucy’s reply. “But, in the first place, there used to be a peculiar looking bouquet sent here every morning for Miss Lincoln—then papa’s consent was asked! And lastly, he is among the missing, bouquets and all.”
“Really, Lucy!” said Ellen laughing, “you form very rapid conclusions.”
“But not always unjust ones,” she persisted.
“Well then, Lucy, if you will have it so, suppose I did refuse the hand of Dr. Warner; it was simply, that I neither wish nor intend to marry.”