"There is no death, 'tis but a shade,
In kindred dust the form is laid;
There is no death,—it is a birth,
A rising heavenward from the earth."
The next morning being very clear and cold, which Rosalind thought a favorable time to test the enduring qualities of the flowed discussed between Walter and herself the day before the storm, she hastened down stairs to look after it, when she met her mother, whose anxious countenance immediately arrested her attention. "Mother, is any thing the matter?" she abruptly enquired.
"Your father is very seriously ill," Mrs. Claremont replied in a tone of voice which unconsciously betrayed her secret fears to Rosalind's quick apprehension.
She immediately sought his presence, but only to listen to his incoherent words. He had passed a restless night with frequent paroxysms of pain, then showing signs of delirium. The frequent visits of the physician indicated his anxiety about the result, whose opinion Mrs. Claremont never asked, divining it too wen to subject herself to the torture of being told. Day after day passed without bringing any encouragement of his recovery, and the only solace of hoping against hope was finally merged in her
