THE DREAMER'S MISSION. 247 



Ere the woods had grown brown and sere beneath the frosts 

 of winter, Horace Lee had resigned himself into the keeping 

 of death. Clasping in his thin fingers, a gorgeous wild-flower, — 

 the last lingerer in a sheltered dell, where Katharine had guard- 

 ed it with jealous care for his sake, and with his last look fixed 

 fondly upon the pale face of the beautiful maiden, he sunk into 

 the dreamless sleep of death. But in life's latest hour the 

 horrors which had so shaken his spirit were chased like clouds 

 away. He was enabled to see the glories of spiritual life 

 gleaming through the half-opened portal of the tomb, and when 

 the grey ghastliness of life's parting agony had passed away, 

 the smile upon his dead face was like the sweet look which 

 settles on the brow of an unweaned child as it slumbers on a 

 mother's bosom. 



Katharine still lives, and though age has silvered her brown 

 locks, and bowed her stately beauty, the influence of her daily 

 life is widely felt. A gentle, unobtrusive, but devoted christian, 

 her time and fortune have been given to all things good and 

 useful. Her love and her religion grew together within her 

 heart, and when death set his seal on her earthly affection, it 

 became a hallowed thing. There were no unsatisfied cravings 

 in her bosom, — her soul found repose in its hopes of a fulness 

 of joy in that higher state of being, where she knew she should 

 find recognition. The image of Horace was inshrined within 

 her inmost heart, and no other shadow ever darkened the 

 threshold of that sanctuary. 



Who will say that the short life of the dreaming and inactive 

 youth was wasted, when such was its result. Who will say 



