“When he comes he will not know me,” she murmured to herself; then sighing deeply, turned and paced the room. What she thought of, none could say. She spoke not; never raised her eyes from off the ground, nor ceased her dreary walk for two long hours. She sometimes sobbed, but never shed a tear.

Here we drop the veil. Let no human eye behold the writhings of that suffering face, the torture of that soul unmoored, and cast upon the sea of wildest passion, without the pilot, principle, or captain of all salvation, God, to trust in,—passion, adoration of a human idol, hereditary traits entirely unbalanced, generous, but fervid impulses, her only guides. She knew that her spiritual person must survive the grave, but what that world was where her spirit was fast tending, only the dread tales of fear and superstition shadowed truth; and now, when her footsteps were pressing to it, horror and dread dogged every footprint.

Hour after hour elapsed alone. O, ’twas agony to be alone! She could not bear it. She would call her maid; but no, her cold, unimpassioned face would bring no comfort to her aching heart, aching for pity, for some cheering bosom, where she might sob her ebbing life away. The door opens,—and O joy! Old Aunt Hannah’s arms enfold her. For hours the two sat in solemn conference, while the servants wondered and speculated over the presence of the old witch.

At last night fell. “Mother,” murmured the dying girl, raising her head from off her damp pillow. “A very golden cloud is printed with the fleecy words of glory. ‘I will return.’” She pointed to the golden clouds banking the western sky. “O, will our spirits come, like setting suns, on each tomorrow of eternity?”

For answer, the old woman raised her hand in warning gesture. There sounded distinct and clear—three loud, yet muffled knocks on the panel directly above the couch where Dianthe lay.

“’Tis nothing, mother; I’m used to it now,” said the girl with indifference.

“You say ’tis nuffin, honey; but yer limbs are quiverin’ wif pain, and the drops ob agony is on yer po’ white face. You can’t ’ceive me, chile; yer granny knows de whole circumstance. I seed it all las’ night in my dreams. Vengeance is mine; I will repay. One comes who is de instrumen’ ob de Lord.” And the old woman muttered and rocked and whispered.