Her hair was now turned back, and was bound with white ribbon, and festooned with some of the very water lilies that Acmé had admired. A snow-white wreath bound her brow. It was formed of the white convolvulus. We have said the features were familiar; but oh! how different! The yellow waxen hue--the heavy stiffened lid--how they affected George Delmé, who had never looked on death before!
First he would gaze with stupid awe--then turn to the window, and attempt to repress his sobs--return again--and refuse to credit his bereavement. Surely the hand moved? No! of its free will shall it never move more! The eye! was there not a slight convulsion in that long dark lash?
No! over it may crawl the busy fly, and creep the destructive worm, without let, and without hindrance!
No finger shall be raised in its behalf--that lid shall remain closed and passive! The insect and the reptile shall extend their wanderings over the smooth cheek, and revel on the lips, whose red once rivalled that of the Indian shell.
Moveless! moveless shall all be!
The long--long night wore on.
An Italian sunrise was gilding the heavens.
Acmé was never to see a sunrise more; and even this reflection--trite as it may seem, occurring to one, who had watched through the night, by the side of the dead--even this reflection, convulsed again the haggard features of the mourner.
Delmé had made the requisite arrangements during the night, for their early departure.
Just previous to the carriage being announced, he led George out of the room; whilst the physician, aided by the women, took such precautions as the heat of the climate rendered necessary.