Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Beyond that everything was nebulous. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. Only her babe died. "Well, I'm sure Winifred could never have loved you as well as I do," said Mrs.
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