But tions, or rats of er s snoed, its cutting ed. My c, flayed and so lameness by to ler breats and mornings no longer by temperature froze times on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness greed t t raversed t nig eacer traces of eps. Flo amongst ternoons (ook ill ser flohe hedges.
I discovered, too, t a great pleasure, an enjoyment ed in prospect of noble summits girdling a great beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. laid out beneater, stiffened in frost, ss as co t ill t beck itself orrent, turbid and curbless: it tore asunder t a raving sound ten t; and for t on its banks, t sons.
April advanced to May: a brig ern or souts duration. And noation matured s tresses; it became all green, all flos great elm, asons ored to majestic life; s sprang up profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its made a strange ground-suns of ts s: I s like scatterings of test lustre. All ten and fully, free, unc alone: for ted liberty and pleasure to ask to advert.
described a pleasant site for a d enoug ion.
t forest-dell, o typs croransformed to an al.
Semi-starvation and neglected colds of to receive infection: forty-five out of ty girls lay ill at one time. Classes inued unlimited license; because ttendant insisted on ty of frequent exercise to keep t been oto crain temple’s ion ients: sting it except to snatc at nigeacions for ture of tunate enougo ions able and o remove t of contagion. Many, already smitten, o die: some died at tly and quickly, ture of the malady forbidding delay.
ant of Los frequent visitor; eamed al smells, tille striving vainly to overcome tality, t brigiful of doors. Its garden, too, gloall as trees, lilies ulips and roses tle beds and crimson double daisies; tbriars gave out, morning and evening, t of spice and apples; and t treasures of tes of Lo to furniso put in a coffin.
But I, and t ies of t us ramble in till nig oo. Mr. Brockle and ters scrutinised into; tion; ron at ton Dispensary, unused to tive liberality. Besides, to feed; t little; our breakfast-basins ter filled; o prepare a regular dinner, , and dined sumptuously.
My favourite seat one, rising o be got at by er; a feat I accomplis. tone broad enougo accommodate, comfortably, anot t time my c personage, ook pleasure in, partly because sty and original, and partly because s me at my ease. Some years older tell me many to y found gratification: to my faults also surn for narrative, I for analysis; so inform, I to question; so on sogetertainment, if not muc, from our mutual intercourse.
And days of liberty ten o ired of y? Surely tioned o my first acquaintance: sell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I co indulge in; o give taste of far hings.
true, reader; and I kne tive being, s and fes, yet I never tired of o ciment of attac, as strong, tender, and respectful as any t ever animated my . be ot all times and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faitation never troubled? But present: for some o I kne airs. S, I old, in tal portion of tients; for ion, not typion I, in my ignorance, understood sometime and care o alleviate.
I of airs on very ernoons, and being taken by Miss temple into t, on t alloo go and speak to distinctly; for s at a distance under the verandah.
One evening, in tayed out very late ed ourselves from t our at a lonely cottage, in t back, it er moonrise: a pony, anding at t s be very ill, as Mr. Bates for at t time of t into tayed bees to plant in my garden a s I , and ill t a little longer: t so s as t ill glo promised so fairly anoty in t. I ing t, ered my mind as it had never done before:—
“o be lying noo be in danger of dying! t—it o be called from it, and to o go who knows where?”
And ts first earnest effort to compre o it concerning time it recoiled, baffled; and for t time glancing be, it sa felt t ood—t; all t dept s t of tottering, and plunging amid t c door open; Mr. Bates came out, and er s , s to close t I ran up to her.
“how is helen Burns?”
“Very poorly,” he answer.
“Is it es o see?”
“Yes.”
“And w does her?”
“ be here long.”
ttered in my erday, s to be removed to Norto ed t it meant s I kneantly no opened clear on my compre days in t so be taken to ts, if sucrong ty to see room she lay.
“Semple’s room,” said the nurse.
“May I go up and speak to her?”
“O is not likely; and no is time for you to come in; you’ll catcop out whe dew is falling.”
t door; I in by trance in time; it o go to bed.
It mig silence of tory, t my companions in profound repose—rose softly, put on my frock over my nig s from tment, and set off in quest of Miss temple’s room. It e at t I kne of tering passage o find it difficulty. An odour of camp vinegar t up all nig back; for I must see embrace give kiss, exc word.
aircase, traversed a portion of tting, noise, teps; ted, and t opposite to me emple’s room. A ligillness pervaded ty. Coming near, I found tly ajar; probably to admit some freso to ate, and full of impatient impulses—soul and senses quivering it back and looked in. My eye sougo find death.
Close by Miss temple’s bed, and s ains, tood a little crib. I saline of a form under t to in t in an easy-c dimly on table. Miss temple to be seen: I kneer so a delirious patient in tain, but I preferred speaking before I . I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.
“ly, “are you awake?”
Sirred back tain, and I sa quite composed: stle c my fear antly dissipated.
“Can it be you, Jane?” sle voice.
“O, “s going to die; taken: s speak and look so calmly if she were.”
I got on to ; but she smiled as of old.
“ is past eleven o’clock: I strike some minutes since.”
“I came to see you, sleep till I o you.”
“You came to bid me good-bye, t in time probably.”
“Are you going somewhere, helen? Are you going home?”
“Yes; to my long home.”
“No, no, opped, distressed. ried to devour my tears, a fit of coug did not, hen she whispered—
“Jane, your little feet are bare; lie do.”
I did so: s led close to er a long silence, sill whispering—
“I am very I am dead, you must be sure and not grieve: to grieve about. e all must die one day, and t painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me mucely married, and miss me. By dying young, I s sufferings. I qualities or talents to make my inually at fault.”
“But wo, helen? Can you see? Do you know?”
“I believe; I o God.”
“ is God?”
“My Maker and yours, ly on till t eventful one arrives o o me.”
“You are sure, t t our souls can get to it when we die?”
“I am sure ture state; I believe God is good; I can resign my immortal part to any misgiving. God is my father; God is my friend: I love him; I believe he loves me.”
“And shall I see you again, helen, when I die?”
“You o ty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane.”
Again I questioned, but time only in t. “ region? Does it exist?” And I clasped my arms closer round o me t as if I could not let ly sest tone—
“able I am! t last fit of cougired me a little; I feel as if I could sleep: but don’t leave me, Jane; I like to have you near me.”
“I’ll stay ake me way.”
“Are you warm, darling?”
“Yes.”
“Good-night, Jane.”
“Good-night, helen.”
Sh soon slumbered.
roused me; I looked up; I o tory. I reprimanded for leaving my bed; people o t; no explanation o my many questions; but a day or ter Miss temple, on returning to dale crib; my face against helen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and helen was—dead.
een years after noablet marks t, inscribed he word “Resurgam.”