Sleep falls upon her eyes; but the "life of death," the
subtle essence of the shrouded soul, the watchful sentinel and viewless
evidence of immortality, the wild and flitting air-wrought impalpabilities
of her fitful dreams, still haunt her in her seeming hours of rest. Fancy
her feelings--
"When, standing fast by her bed-post,
A figure tall her sight engross'd,"
and it cried--
"'I be's Giles Scroggins' ghost.'"
Such is the frightful announcement commemorative of this visitation from
the wandering spirit of the erratic Giles. Death has indeed parted them.
Giles is cold, but still his love is warm! He loved and won her in
life--he hints at a right of possession in death; and this very
forgetfulness of what he _was_, and what he _is_, is the best essence of
the overwhelming intensity of his passion. He continues (with a beautiful
reliance on the faith and _living_ constancy of Molly, in reciprocation,
though dead, of his deathless attachment) to offer her a share, not of his
bed and board, but of his shell and shroud.
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