I wish with all my heart that it were a
fiction, and that Providence had never furnished me with such a
seeming anomaly to add to the list of my desultory chronicles. But I
am telling a true story of a life. Ellen found no mate. No mate, did I
say? Yes, one: the same grim yokefellow whose delight it is 'to gather
roses in the spring' paid ghastly court to her faded charms, and won
her--who shall say an unwilling bride? I could see his gradual but
deadly advances in my daily walks: the same indications that gave
warning of the sister's fate admonished me that she also was on her
way to the tomb, and that the place that had known her would soon know
her no more. She grew day by day more feeble; and one morning I found
her seated on the step of a door, unable to proceed. After that she
disappeared from my view; and though I never saw her again at the old
spot, I have seldom passed that spot since, though for many years
following the same route, without recognising again in my mind's eye
the graceful form and angel aspect of Ellen D----.
'And is this the end of your mournful history?' some querulous reader
demands. Not quite. There is a soul of good in things evil. Compassion
dwells with the depths of misery; and in the valley of the shadow of
death dove-eyed Charity walks with shining wings.
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