suit — soft, airy, bird-like, thrilled the delicious notes a moment, and then died away. The instrument fell to the floor, and its chords snapped. You heard that sound through the silence. The artist looked on his kneeling child, and then on the broken chords. . . "Bury me by her side," he said, in a very calm, low voice; "and that by mine." And with these words his whole frame became rigid, as if turned to stone. The last change passed over his face. He fell to the ground, sudden and heavy. The chords there, too — the chords of the human instrument were snapped asunder. As he fell, his robe brushed the laurel-wreath, and that fell also, near, but not in reach of, the dead man's nerveless hand.
Broken instrument — broken heart — withered laurel-wreath! — the setting sun through the vine-clad lattice streamed on all! So smiles the eternal Nature on the wrecks of all that make life glorious! And not a sun that sets not somewhere on the silenced music — on the faded laurel!
