Shirley

white marble. There is plenty of room for other inscriptions underneath.«
    »William Farren came to look after your flowers this morning: he was afraid, now you cannot tend them yourself, they would be neglected. He has taken two of your favourite plants home to nurse for you.«
    »If I were to make a will, I would leave William all my plants; Shirley my trinkets – except one, which must not be taken off my neck; and you, ma'am, my books.« (After a pause.) »Mrs. Pryor, I feel a longing wish for something.«
    »For what, Caroline?«
    »You know I always delight to hear you sing: sing me a hymn just now: sing that hymn which begins, –
     
    ›Our God, our help in ages past, –
    Our hope for years to come;
    Our shelter from the stormy blast;
    Our refuge, haven, home!‹«
     
    Mrs. Pryor at once complied.
    No wonder Caroline liked to hear her sing: her voice, even in speaking, was sweet and silver-clear; in song, it was almost divine: neither flute nor dulcimer has tones so pure. But the tone was secondary compared to the expression which trembled through: a tender vibration from a feeling heart.
    The servants in the kitchen, hearing the strain, stole to the stair-foot to listen: even old Helstone, as he walked in the garden, pondering over the unaccountable and feeble nature of women, stood still amongst his borders to catch the mournful melody more distinctly. Why it reminded him of his forgotten dead wife, he could not tell; nor why it made him more concerned than he had hitherto been for Caroline's fading girlhood. He was glad to recollect that he had promised to pay Wynne, the magistrate, a visit that evening. Low spirits and gloomy thoughts were very much his aversion: when they attacked him he usually found means to make them march in double-quick time. The hymn followed him faintly as he crossed the fields: he hastened his customary sharp pace, that he might get beyond its reach.
     
    »Thy word commands our flesh to dust, –
    ›Return, ye sons of men;‹
    All nations rose from earth at first,
    And turn to earth again.
     
    A thousand ages in thy sight
    Are like an evening gone;
    Short as the watch that ends the night
    Before the rising sun.
     
    Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
    Bears all its sons away;
    They fly, forgotten, as a dream
    Dies at the opening day.
     
    Like flowery fields, the nations stand,
    Fresh in the morning light;
    The flowers beneath the mower's hand
    Lie withering ere't is night.
     
    Our God, our help in ages past, –
    Our hope for years to come;
    Be thou our guard while troubles last, –
    O Father, be our home!«
     
    »Now sing a song – a Scottish song,« suggested Caroline, when the hymn was over, – »›Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.‹«
    Again Mrs. Pryor obeyed, or essayed to obey. At the close of the first stanza she stopped; she could get no further: her full heart flowed over.
    »You are weeping at the pathos of the air: come here, and I will comfort you,« said Caroline, in a pitying accent. Mrs. Pryor came: she sat down on the edge of her patient's bed, and allowed the wasted arms to encircle her.
    »You often soothe me, let me soothe you,« murmured the young girl, kissing her cheek. »I hope,« she added, »it is not for me you weep?«
    No answer followed.
    »Do you think I shall not get better? I do not feel
very
ill – only weak.«
    »But your mind, Caroline: your mind is crushed; your heart is almost broken: you have been so neglected, so repulsed, left so desolate.«
    »I belief grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment. I sometimes think, if an abundant gush of happiness came on me, I could revive yet.«
    »Do you wish to live?«
    »I have no object in life.«
    »You love me, Caroline?«
    »Very much, – very truly, – inexpressibly sometimes: just now, I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart.«
    »I will return directly, dear,« remarked Mrs. Pryor, as she laid Caroline down.
    Quitting her, she glided to the door, softly turned the key in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came back. She bent over her. She threw back the curtain to admit the moonlight more freely. She gazed intently on her face.
    »Then, if you love me,« said she, speaking quickly, with an altered voice: »if you feel as if – to use your own words – you could ›grow to my heart,‹ it will be neither shock nor pain for you to know that
that
heart is the source whence yours was filled; that from
my
veins issued the tide which flows in
yours;
that you