CHAPTER XXVIII.
"To die, is landing on some silent shore, Where billows never beat nor tempests roar!" GARTH.
Since morning, Mary had lain in the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion: and now the leafless boughs, which waved to and fro before her window, threw long shadows athwart the wall and across the deserted yard.

Evening was creeping slowly on.

Over the wan, yet lovely face of the sleeper had come a gradual change--agonizing, yet indescribable.

It ever appears when Death approaches to claim his victim, and it seems as though the shadow cast by his black pinions.
Mary opened her eyes and looked silently on the sad group which clustered around her couch.

Mr.Stewart, alone able to command his voice, asked if she was not better, as she had slept so gently.
"All is well, Mr.Stewart--I have no pain;" and her eye again rested on Florence.