602 THE RUINED MERCHANT. 



through the mind of Edward Monson, on the sudden death of his 

 wife. Little more than two years had elapsed since he had called 

 her his own, and during the time they had lived together, every day 

 had more closely enchained her to his heart : his love had seemed to 

 grow more and more engrossing; and now to be taken away in the 

 very summer time of her loveliness, to have the links burst asunder 

 forcibly and without preparation, the pang was too great for human 

 endurance, and he stalked wildly through the apartment, uttering 

 broken exclamations of despair and agony. 



" O God! God! why thus rob me of life? Why, oh why 

 take her away, who was already more than an angel?" and then 

 pausing and apostrophizing the inanimate body " Speak once 

 again, Amy, speak, or whisper that you hear me ! Alas ! alas ! she 

 is, she must be dead ! But no, no, I cannot, I will not believe it ! 

 it is a horrible dream from which I shall soon awake." 



Monson paced agitatedly to and fro, every motion indicative of the 

 extremity of distress, with glazed and blood-shot eye, flushed brow, 

 and disordered dress, while his wife lay before him, calm, placid, 

 and even yet beautiful, as if buried in the sleep of innocent and 

 happy childhood. The angel of death had indeed been too surely 

 her visitant ; but her spirit had departed without injuring or de- 

 facing the earthly tabernacle which had been hitherto its shrine ; 

 and her countenance still retained the same bland expression, almost 

 amounting to a smile, that had ever dwelt there when in his pre- 

 sence. 



Amy Monson, in the enjoyment of health and happiness, had 

 been removed by one of those inscrutable decrees of Providence 

 which bewilder and perplex man's limited perceptions. Cut off in 

 the bloom and vigour of life, after a few hours' illness, apparently 

 threatening no danger, her husband had left her to seek medical 

 assistance, and on returning had the misery to find her dying. One 

 faint smile, one feeble effort to grasp his hand, and all was over: 

 and though many bitter hours had passed away, the intensity of his 

 sorrow had suffered no alleviation. In vain his mother had clasped 

 him in her arms, and had joined her tears and lamentations to his; 

 the sympathy of sorrow, in place of lessening, appeared to add to his 

 misery. In vain his father had poured into his ear the gentlest and 

 kindest words of comfort : all was unavailing ; the tempest had been 

 too dire, had stirred too deeply the mighty stream of passion to 

 subside hastily ; and though its continuous rage had become in some 

 degree quelled, the fitful gusts that came with overwhelming vio- 

 lence at intervals, were even more terrible and appalling than its 

 first vehemence. 



The shadows of evening were gradually darkening the chamber 

 of death, when Monson seated himself beside the bed, and taking 

 the small and delicate hand, now deadly white as alabaster, of his 

 lost wife between.,, both his own, he bowed his head down upon 

 them, and sobbed* and wept without intermission, but in a quieter 

 and more subdued mood. Presently his sobs became less audible, 

 his chest heaved less convulsively, and before long the deepest 

 silence reigned throughout the room ; and he slept in his uneasy 



