For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour,
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and
her footsteps.

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets,
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far
below her,

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld

him,

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and ab

sence.

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but trans-

figured;

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not

absent;

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma.
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sun-
light,

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected.
Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman

repeated

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the

city,

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the

suburbs

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild

pigeons,

Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn.

And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of Septem

ber,

Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the

meadow,

So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural màrgin, Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;

But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;

Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor atten

dants,

Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the home

less.

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;

Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and

wicket

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to

echo

Softly the words of the Lord: you."

"The poor ye always have with

Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The

dying

Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold

there

Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor,
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial,
Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the alms

house.

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the

garden;

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among

them,

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and

beauty.

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind,

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,

While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her

spirit;

Something within her said, "At length thy trials are ended";

And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of

sickness.

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in

silence

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their

faces,

Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road-side.

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her

presence

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a

prison.

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the con

soler,

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever.
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time;
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers,

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the

morning.

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible an

guish,

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old

man.

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his

temples;

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier man

hood;

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying.
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever,
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its

portals,

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and

pass over.

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit ex

hausted

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the

darkness,

Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and sink

ing.

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverbera

tions,

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bed-

side.

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside

him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into

darkness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sor

row,

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!