The Vermont transcript. [volume] (St. Albans, Vt.) 1864-1870, 1868-04-17
CHAPTER LII

remembrance of the loved and lost than
in the sable weed of the mOurner.
CHAPTER III.
Mary Grant went out of the house no
more. In another week her waiting
spirit babe farewell to earth, and wing
ed its way to its native skies. Calmly
and trustingly, while heavenly smile (
played upon her irradiated features, she
breathed her last in the arms of Mabel. /
She was gone Her wasted form,
from which the undying soul had just
taken its flight, lay in rigid silence be-
fore her. She was beautiful in death
so beautiful that Mabel could hardly be-
lieve she was dead; and those lips, part
ed in placid smile, could no more speak
gentle cOunsels to her that those eyes,
now motionless and sealed, could no
more reflect the love of that affection
ate heart upon her.
But a moment before she had hidden
her farewell Could she be dead ? Was
it indeed true that those smiling lips
were forever sealed; that another note
of sisteriy love could not proceed from
them?
Kind friends were waiting to prepare
the body for the sepulchre, and gentle
hand led her away from the inanimate
form of Mary. Then, then she realized
that her sister was indeed dead, and
torrent of woe wildly swept into her
heart.
Flying to her chamber she gave free
vent to her grief.
''She II gone She il gOne!n sObbed
she, as she buried her face beneath her
hands, and trembled in the agony of her
emotion.
Mary died a. the sun was sinking be-
hind the western hills. Her pure spirit
had fled with the day; but the change
led her to an endless day where there is
no night, and the sun never sets.
Mabel passed q sleepless night. Her
pillow was wet with her tears. She rose
in the morning and fastened To gaze up
on the form of Mary. She was arrayed
for the grave, and "a Mabel bent over
her and printed a kiss upon the paid,
cold lips, the memories of the past rush.
ed wildly into her heart. Her eyes
rained tears upon the marble beauty of
the corpse.
And there she stood for an hour COM
muning with the days which were now
no more; which could never be again.
because the heart that made them glad
was now still in death.
The fOrmality Of the morning meal
was disposed Oft was nothing more
than a form to the weeping household
aud Mabel returned 10 the side of her
departed sister. She kissed the cold
lips again, and gave herself up 10 the
flood of irresistible grief which faithful
memory forced upon her.
Excuse me, Miss Grant, - said one of
the neighbors. who had come in to as
sist the family but Miss Barnes, the
dress-maker, Is waiting to fit your dress"
Her dress, There was something
heartless, cruelty repulsive in the word.
Her dress at such time as that Must
she leave the bier of her dead sister to
converse upon the details of a garment?
Must her mind abandon the thought of
the dead to dwell upon the fashion of
dress.
Without word she went to the sit
ting room. 1t was busy scene for the
house of mourning, and she learned the
mantua-maker had been there all night,
for the weather was warm, and the fune-
raj must take place the following day.
The conversation of the apartment
sounded lOathsOme to her. TWAS not of
her dead sister, it was of the latest fash
ions, of the prOpriety of this and that ;
the fitness Ofthis article and the untitness
of another.
They asked her how she would have
her dress cut; but her thoughts were
with Mary. and she answered not. As
soon as she could be spared, she left the
dress-makers and returned to the cham |
er of the dead.
Again she wandered back with Mary
to the scenes of their happy childhood. |
Again the tears flowed freely down her |
cheeks, and the spirit of the loved one
seemed to speak to her from the heaven /
IN which She had asqppdpd
1.-The milliner has come, and wants to |
try on your bonet, " said the servant girl. !
Mabel attended the summons and re- I
turned. Her grief was too deep TO per- |
NIT her to participate in the occupations /
of the sitting room, though her mother /
was compelled to be there, and had been |
there all night.
Please marin, the shOpkeeper has /
come over with some gloves, and they /
want you to pick out a pair said the /
girl again.
She had scarcely disposed of this mat /
ter before another demanded her atten- /
ton and thus ii was all day long
The house was full of hustle and con-
fusion. The tailor, the halter, the no /
sier, and "A score of female artisans were /
constantly coming and going.
The solitude which her weeping heart /
craved was denied her. On the morrow /
that loved form was to be borne away /
and placed in the ground. They could /
never behold it again; but from the I
hour that Mary had breathed her last, |
TO the arrival of the funeral guests, she |
heard more of business, of the repulsive /
details of dress and fashion, than of |
those more appropriate words, which |
solace the mOurner in the hour of trial. /
The mourning garments were com |
pleted but when Mabel was arrayed !
in them, they carried no comfort TO |
the heart. She could not even feel that !
the wearing of them was token OF res
peet to her dead sister; for they had !
robbed her of her right to weep over |
her bier.
More than once she recalled the un- !
charitable Judgment she had passed up |
on the Iawsons but they had been
privileged to mourn without Interrupt
ton over their dead. The course they
had chosen was reasonable; and she
could not but feel that if the heart alone
were consulted, it would not weep in
nodding plumes and sable weeds.
Arounds the grave of Mary, the devo-
ted sister planted the flowers she had
loved so well, and every evening, as the
sun sunk away, she placed fresh bOu-
quet upon the green sod above her.
And close by, the hand of affection
strewed flowers upon the grave of Ellen
Lawson; and all summer long, and
when the chill winds of autumn
swept the cemetery, these floral offerings
told the passer by that the dead were re-
membered every day.
Bring flowers, Scatter them upon
the graves of the dead for they are a
far more grateful tribute to the memory