as of a treasure which she had not always possessed, and, therefore,
had been aware that it might be taken from her; but the daughter
evidently had no real knowledge of what death's doings were. Her
thoughts knew, but not her heart. It seemed to me, that by the print
and pressure which the dead sister had left upon the survivor's
spirit, her feelings were almost the same as if she still stood side
by side, and arm in arm, with the departed, looking at the slabs of
marble; and once or twice she glanced around with a sunny smile,
which, as its sister smile had faded forever, soon grew confusedly
overshadowed. Perchance her consciousness was truer than her
reflection,--perchance her dead sister was a closer companion than in
life. The mother and daughter talked a long while with Mr.
Wigglesworth about a suitable epitaph, and finally chose an ordinary
verse of ill-matched rhymes, which had already been inscribed upon
innumerable tombstones. But, when we ridicule the triteness of
monumental verses, we forget that Sorrow reads far deeper in them than
we can, and finds a profound and individual purport in what seems so
vague and inexpressive, unless interpreted by her. She makes the
epitaph anew, though the self-same words may have served for a
thousand graves.

"And yet," said I afterwards to Mr. Wigglesworth, "they might have
made a better choice than this. While you were discussing the
subject, I was struck by at least a dozen simple and natural
expressions from the lips of both mother and daughter. One of these
would have formed an inscription equally original and appropriate."

"No, no," replied the sculptor, shaking his head, "there is a good deal
of comfort to be gathered from these little old scraps of poetry; and
so I always recommend them in preference to any new-fangled ones. And