It broke her brother’s heart.
She became a maniac.
Such is a story of facts, and the half dead creature I held in my arms was that same unfortunate sister. I conveyed her to the inn of the village where I learned that she was a great trouble to the place, and to one or two excellent families who treated her with every affection. They were obliged to confine her. Yet she always baffled them and resorted immediately to her brother’s grave, where she would spend night and day sitting on the turf, and singing some little ditty of former days. I learned also to my eternal indignation, that save these two or three families, the village thought her little better than a wanton—for Saxelby had died, and the facts were known. Oh, cursed, and doubly cursed be this queasy prudery of the world! Cursed be the spirit that casts out the repentant lost one, who craves our forgiveness! Cursed be they who rant so noisily of virtue, and prate of self-government! Tremble, and be merciful!—ye have not been tried.
The story of this girl made an impression on me never to be forgotten, and having so well as I was able made arrangement for her future comforts, I left the village.
I afterwards passed through the place and learned that she was dead. She had continued as formerly to spend her time at the church yard, pulling the flowers from this or that mound to scatter them over her brother, singing her little songs and talking half-reasonable and half-wild to every chance passenger. Thus she continued until late fall, when she was found one cold morning stiff upon his grave—one arm bent beneath her and her lips softly apart, as if the last words that passed them was her brother’s name.
*
TO ********* ******.
I love to watch the twilight sky
When in it glows the star of even,
For then it seems that Love’s own eye