The gray dawn broke at last, and up the graveled walk rapid
footsteps came--Arthur St. Claire hastening home. From a distant
hill he had caught the blaze of Nina's bonfire, and trembling with
fear and dread, he hurried on to learn what it could mean. There
was no stir about the house--no sign of life, only the crimson
blaze shining across the fields, and the sound of a voice, feeble
now, and sunk almost to a whisper, for Nina's strength was giving
way. For hours she had sung, while the head upon her bosom pressed
more and more heavily--the hand which clasped hers unloosed its
hold--the eyes which had fastened themselves upon her with a look
of unutterable love, closed wearily--the lips, which, so long as
there was life in them, ceased not to bless her, were still, and
poor, tired, crazy Nina, fancying that he slept at last, still
swayed back and forth, singing to the cold senseless clay, an
infant lullaby.
"Hushaby, my baby--go to sleep, my child."
HE had sung it once to her. SHE sang it now to him, and the
strange words fell on Arthur's ear, even before he stepped across
the threshold, where he stood appalled at the unwonted spectacle
which met his view.
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