CHAPTER XI.

WAVE UPON WAVE.

I HAD talked a great deal, and thought still more than I had talked, of the loss I should sustain when Effie died, but never till the moment when my fascinated eyes rested upon the shattered earthly tabernacle of the pure spirit which had been knit to my own, did I realize at all what it would be to part with her.

It is only when we see death that we get a

distinct view of that mysterious and solemn barrier which is erected between those who have passed for ever from our material world, and those who are still dwellers in it. When once the body is committed to the dust, and time has begun its healing work upon our bruised hearts, it may be that memory will love to linger round. the lost one, and even imagine some spiritual communion existing in the place of that familiar earthly intercourse which is broken for ever; but before anything like this can be accomplished, we must forget altogether the impressions produced by the first sight of death's cruel signet on the beloved face, for while these impressions remain, the sense of separation must be as complete as it is terrifying and heart sickening.

I only ventured on one shuddering look, and then, turning away, I tore open the door and ran as fast as my shaking knees would permit me, to Mrs. Allen's room. The old woman was

just beginning to dress herself; and, knowing her great attachment to Effie, I ought to have been more cautious; but thinking of nothing but the one overpowering sorrow, I clung round her neck, and with sobs and cries that might have been heard in any part of the house, told her that our darling was dead.

Poor faithful, loving soul! Her natural and obstinate incredulity served her instead of the preparation I had neglected to give her. She knew I must be mistaken-people in declines never went off "so sudden like;" it was only a heavy sleep, or at the worst a fainting fit, that we should get her out of presently. Nevertheless, she only stayed to throw on a loose gown, and then followed me, looking very pale, into the fatal room.

I allowed her to approach the bed alone. I had no desire yet for a second interview with death, whose ghastly visage was imprinted only

too faithfully upon my excited imagination; but I watched my companion narrowly, as, less horror stricken than I had been, she stooped down close to the corpse, and passed her hand several times over the rigid features.

"Blessed, blessed angel!" she said at length, in a low, broken voice.

And then I knew that she had been fain to accept my testimony as truth, and that there was in that death chamber another bleeding heart besides my own.

For several minutes not a sound broke the unearthly stillness of the room. Mrs. Allen had assumed a kneeling posture by the bed, and I daresay was praying, in her simple fashion, to be made submissive under the blow she could not but feel acutely, while I stood by the window watching the heavy, scudding clouds, and wishing I were as inanimate and insensible to suffering as they.

I was surprised that there had been no violent outburst of grief on the part of the old housekeeper. She, who had cried so much from the first, seemed to have no tears to shed now; but when she rose from her knees and faced me, I could not doubt that the arrow had struck deeply, and I admitted and respected the strength of mind which enabled her to put aside all outward demonstration of sorrow, now that the time for personal exertion had arrived.

I believe people in a comparatively humble sphere of life almost invariably shame their superiors in cases such as these, and I can only account for it on the ground of their habitual subservience, and the necessity which they constantly recognise, to forget themselves when those whom circumstances have made their masters, have to be thought of and attended

to.

Mrs. Allen must have known perfectly well that,