"Mona, it is—it must be!" says Geoffrey, taking her hand; and so they both stand, almost breathless, on the high bank, listening intently.,
Castles within the fire grow grand and tall, and then crumble into dust; castles in Mona's brain fare likewise. The shadows dance upon the walls; silently imperceptibly, the minutes flit away.,
"I wish you would not talk of being buried," says Mona, with a sob. "There is no comfort in the tomb: there our dust may mingle, but in heaven our souls shall meet, I trust,—I hope.".
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