brow, demanded another prey when I kissed the child of those nuptials."

"You are prepared at last, then, to act?" cried Varney, in a tone of
savage joy.

At that moment, close under the window, rose, sudden and sweet, the voice
of one singing,--the young voice of Helen. The words were so distinct
that they came to the ears of the dark-plotting and guilty pair. In the
song itself there was little to remark or peculiarly apposite to the
consciences of those who heard; yet in the extreme and touching purity of
the voice, and in the innocence of the general spirit of the words, trite
as might be the image they conveyed, there was something that contrasted
so fearfully their own thoughts and minds that they sat silent, looking
vacantly into each other's faces, and shrinking perhaps to turn their
eyes within themselves.

HELEN'S HYMN.

Ye fade, yet still how sweet, ye Flowers! Your scent outlives
the bloom! So, Father, may my mortal hours Grow sweeter towards
the tomb!

In withered leaves a healing cure The simple gleaners find;
So may our withered hopes endure In virtues left behind!

Oh, not to me be vainly given The lesson ye bestow, Of
thoughts that rise in sweets to Heaven, And turn to use below.

The song died, but still the listeners remained silent, till at length,
shaking off the effect, with his laugh of discordant irony, Varney said,-