DYING MUSIC.

Sterling was right. It was not many days before the caresses of Dora, and a natural sense of justice, won a full consent to the young people's marriage; but the engagement was to last a year, and was not to be made a matter of general knowledge at all. Indeed, the secluded life the persons concerned were leading, rendered this easy; there really existed few persons on the prairie who would have been interested in the matter.

Meantime, Rhoda and her brother settled down in that prairie cabin perfectly at home, while old Mr. Weeks took the opportunity and spent his days at the shanty, helping the landlord serve out mint-julips, whiskey-smashes, and an assortment of drinks, whose mere names are beyond my limited knowledge, and the very fumes of which were enough to keep any moderate man in a state of semi-intoxication. He sometimes came over and did a little gardening for Mrs. Holt, at which times he appeared prim and decorous enough to make Rhoda proud of him, and give her faith in the country air as a corrective of intemperance and idleness. But the poor girl had her troubles, which would not be put aside with delusion.

After the first few days Luke began to droop again. He was never at rest unless Dora was somewhere in sight; and would sit hours together at the window, watching the door of her home with such longing in those beautiful eyes, that Mrs. Holt, in very compassion, managed to keep the girl half the time by her side. When she was away, he never touched the Cremona; but sometimes, when he caught a sight of her in the garden, or by the river, he would take up the instrument, and with its plaintive strains call her to him clearly, almost as if he had spoken in words.

Dora pitied the boy, and was fascinated by his music—so all this was no constraint upon her. Besides, she was very happy in those days, and it became a pleasure to give the radiance of her own joy to everything less fortunate than herself. She did not realize that the lad was dying, and that her presence, as he approached "the valley and shadow," was like that of an angel; for youth is unreasoningly hopeful, and puts aside the very idea of death; but she knew that he grew thinner and whiter each day; that unearthly harmonies seemed most natural to his violin; and the beauty of his face was like that of a seraph pining for companionship. So that bright girl would sit for hours and hours listening to him, holding his hand in hers, soothing his brow with her sweet, sisterly kisses, and talking of the time when he would give concerts in the city, and she would bring half the world to listen.

There had been a time when Luke talked freely of dying to his sister, and found angelic pleasure therein; but now he would speak of nothing but life—some bright, heavenly life, in which Dora would always be first and foremost. It was a sweet dream, full of visionary happiness, in which the boy floated slowly to his grave.

One day, in the restlessness of disease, he went down to the river, and rested himself in the very place he had occupied on the morning he first saw Dora coming toward him in her canoe. The grape-vines, which had seized upon the branches of the elms, weaving themselves insidiously up them, had grown thick and heavy since then, trailing to the earth in places, and even escaping along the grass, yielded a cool, green shelter, which protected him from the sun, and, in some directions, entirely from sight.

Luke had left his violin behind him, being too weak and weary even for so light a burden. But he carried a soft, low melody in his mind, and it came in sighs to his lips, brightening them with a beauty only known to creative genius. As he lay thus, inspired but quiet, the sound of footsteps, sweeping through the grass, disturbed him a little, for he wanted to be alone. Directly he heard a voice that made his heart leap. It was speaking with sweet earnestness to some one who seemed delighted to listen.

"No, William, let us be patient," it said, "father has been very kind to yield so much; for if he was ambitious for anything on earth, it is in behalf of his child. The idea of wealth and immediate position he has given up; but something we must do in return. His interests in this railroad are enormous. All that he has now is vested in these wild lands; help him to carry out his plans, convince him that you have the will and ability which makes prosperous business men, that will be all he desires. A year is but little, William, when we think of it."

"But, Dora, one year is an eternity when it keeps you from me. Time, I do believe, is the natural enemy of true love."

"I think it is the sunshine which ripens a blossom into most delicious fruit. Why, each day, William, this love of ours grows deeper and sweeter from thinking of that eternal companionship which is to come."

"Ah, Dora! you have been talking with my mother."

"Talking with her? Of course, I have. Almost everything I think or feel, that has good in it, comes from her. Is she not your mother? I cannot tell you everything; but with her I feel like a little child."

"I am glad you love my mother, Dora."

"Love her! Why, isn't she a part of your own self? Sometimes, when I love you so much that it seems wicked, I go to her and grow myself again."

"Is this true, Dora? Am I so very dear to you?"

"Dear! And you can ask that? Why, William Sterling, there is not on this earth any one being that I love one quarter so much."

They were passing the elm-trees, and paused a moment in the earnestness of this conversation. The boy, lying under these sheltering vines, lifted himself to one elbow, and through the clustering leaves saw William Sterling, with both Dora's hands in his, reading her face with such smiles as love gives back to love. The two passed on after this brief pause. Luke fell slowly back to the earth, and lay there with his face buried in the grass, from which two gasping sobs came, minute after minute, leaving him still and quite motionless at last.

It must have been a full hour before the boy sat up and looked around him. Then his face was white as snow, and it seemed as if some violets, hidden in the grass, must have left their shadows on his lips, they were so blue and cold. No, no, it was not that, for on one cheek, near his mouth, was a red stain; and the bent grass, where his face had been lying, rose up slowly from the pressure which had held it down, and each spire was ensanguined with a drop of blood.

Luke turned his eyes mournfully upon the reddened grass, and, after one or two feeble efforts, arose to his feet. Slowly he crept along the footpath leading to the cabin. Once or twice he was compelled to sit down; but he reached home at last, and, finding the room empty, lay down on his couch, and remained there with his eyes closed.

A little while after this Rhoda came in from the kitchen. Thinking him asleep, she walked up to the couch on tip-toe and kissed his white forehead, lightly as the shadow falls from a flower. Sometimes little Rhoda would steal such kisses from the dying boy, and hoard them away as precious memories for the hereafter; for, with all its practicability, that heart of hers was brimful of affection, and she almost worshiped her brother. The good creature looked down upon his sleep, as she supposed, and saw a faint quiver of pain pass over his white face; then she crept away, fearing that her fondness had disturbed him. She had no courage to go back to her work in the kitchen, but sat near the window, still and watchful as a hospital nurse, waiting for him to recognize her presence.

At length the boy arose to a sitting posture, and called Rhoda by name. She went to him eagerly.

"The Cremona," she said, following the direction of his wild, bright eyes, and taking the violin from the wall. He reached out his arms for the instrument, but the smile upon his face almost broke Rhoda's heart.

Luke's hand trembled as it took the bow, and the first notes it drew forth were vague and quivering; but the spirit within that delicate form was stronger even than the death-angel. Once more that shadowy hand passed over the strings, and music, that seemed an expression of more than mortal anguish, went wailing through the cabin. It was the cry of a soul breaking up for eternity. The birds, that had been singing all day in the thickets, hushed themselves and listened. A deer, going down to the river for drink, paused on the bank and looked around wonderingly. Mrs. Holt, sitting alone in her bed-room, stole softly to the door, holding her breath. The two lovers, strolling homeward from a walk by the river, turned toward the cabin and paused near the door, not daring to enter. As Dora's foot touched the threshold-stone, the magnetism of her presence made itself felt even in the music. That cry of the soul softened; a mist of tears seemed passing through it, subduing its anguish into pathetic mournfulness. It was like a spirit at the gates of heaven, entreating the angels to let him in.

Dora was thrilled through and through with the music. It seemed calling to her with heavenly tenderness from the "dark valley." She felt that those bright, beautiful eyes were searching for her through the music; her shadow fell across the open door; her face, wet with unconscious tears, became visible to those eyes turned that way in mournful expectation.

As she crossed the room, moving slowly, as it were to the sadness of the music, a heavenly smile broke over the face of that gentle boy; the strings of the Cremona quivered under one wild inspiration of joy that never was fully uttered, and dropped from those lifeless fingers to the floor, with a wail that seemed almost human, for the instrument was broken with the young life it had inspired.