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THE LADY PILGRIM. 91 
windows a soft, cool breeze stole from the bosom 
of the placid ocean, and fanned the few auburn 
curls which strayed out from beneath her cap. O ! 
in that hour she seemed too beautiful for death — 
too beautiful to be laid away in the cold, dark 
grave, where the worm revels on its prey. 
The Pilgrims were all there — all had come in 
to witness the visitation of that dread tyrant, who 
takes from the arms of affection its cherished 
idol. That dread tyrant , did I say ? I meant not 
thus. To the Christian, death is an angel of mer¬ 
cy ; it holds the key which unlocks the golden 
gates of paradise; it introduces him to the glori¬ 
ous company of “the angels and just men made 
perfect.” 
The eyes of the sufferer closed for a moment, 
and her lips moved as if in prayer. While thus 
engaged, an expression of almost angelic beauty 
stole over her wasted features; her blue eyes un¬ 
closed again, and, raising her arm, she wound it 
around her husband’s neck, and drew his face 
close to hers. 
“ Thou art very sorrowful, my beloved ! ” she 
said. “ Why do you mourn ? We weep not 
when an uncaged bird seeks the blue of its native 
skies — when a flower droops in our path at noon¬ 
day, and withers. Why weep when a tired spirit 
seeks rest from the tumults of this world in the 
bosom of its God ? when, like the bird, it tries its 
wing in an upward flight, and rests at last only in 
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