hers, in another sense, was approaching. Enough it is to say that all
was soon over; and, the morning of that day had at last arrived which
looked down upon her innocent face, sleeping the sleep from which there
is no awaking, and upon me sorrowing the sorrow for which there is no
consolation.

On the day after my sister's death, whilst the sweet temple of her
brain was yet unviolated by human scrutiny, I formed my own scheme for
seeing her once more. Not for the world would I have made this known,
nor have suffered a witness to accompany me. I had never heard of
feelings that take the name of "sentimental," nor dreamed of such a
possibility. But grief, even in a child, hates the light, and shrinks
from human eyes. The house was large enough to have two staircases;
and by one of these I knew that about midday, when all would be quiet,
(for the servants dined at one o'clock,) I could steal up into her
chamber. I imagine that it was about an hour after high noon when I
reached the chamber door: it was locked, but the key was not taken
away. Entering, I closed the door so softly, that, although it opened
upon a hall which ascended through all the stories, no echo ran along
the silent walls. Then, turning round, I sought my sister's face. But
the bed had been moved, and the back was now turned towards myself.
Nothing met my eyes but one large window, wide open, through which the
sun of midsummer, at midday, was showering down torrents of splendor.
The weather was dry, the sky was cloudless, the blue depths seemed the
express types of infinity; and it was not possible for eye to behold,
or for heart to conceive, any symbols more pathetic of life and the
glory of life.

Let me pause in approaching a remembrance so affecting for my own mind,
to mention, that, in the "Opium Confessions," I endeavored to explain