thy, both sickened on the same day--of the same fever--and died at the same hour;--and not from any dim intention of those who buried them, but accidentally, and because the burial-ground of the Minister and the Elder adjoined, were they buried almost in the same grave--for not half a yard of daisied turf divided them--a curtain between the beds on which brother and sister slept.
In their delirium they both talked about each other--Mary Morrison and Harry Wilton--yet their words were not words of love, only of common kindness; for although on their death-beds they did not talk about death, but frequently about that May-day Festival, and other pleasant meetings in neighbours' houses, or in the Manse. Mary sometimes rose up in bed, and in imagination joined her voice to that of the flute which to his lips was to breathe no more; and even at the very self-same moment--so it wonderfully was--did he tell all to be hushed, for that Mary Morrison was about to sing the Flowers of the Forest.
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