trees was empty. He was too weak even to
be carried there, but lay restlessly turning on
his little bed, through the long hours, showing
by his burning cheek, and bright but heavy
eye, how ill and full of pain he was. And by
his side, as ever, Gabrielle knelt, soothing
him with tender words; bathing the little
hands, and moistening the lips; bending over
him and gazing on him with all her passionate
love beaming in her tearful eyes. But she
was wonderfully calm—watching like a gentle
angel over him.

Through the long day, and far into the
night, and still no rest or ease. Gabrielle
never moved from beside him: she could feel
no fatigue: her sorrow seemed to bear her up
with a strange strength. At last, he was so
weak that he could not raise his head from
the pillow.

He lay very still, with his mother's hand in
his; the flush gradually passing away from
his cheek, until it became quite pale, like
marble; the weary eye half closed.

"You are not suffering much, my child?"

"Oh no, mother, not now. I am so much
better!"

So much better! How deep the words went
down into her heart!

"I am so sleepy," said the little plaintive
voice again. "If I go to sleep, wouldn't
you sleep too? You must be so tired,
mother."

"See, my darling, I will lay down here by
you; let me raise your head a moment—there
—lay it upon me. Can you sleep so?"

"Ah, yes, mother; that is very good."

He was closing his eyes, when a strong
impulse that Gabrielle could not resist, made
her rouse him for a moment, for she knew
that he was dying.

"Willie, before you sleep, have you strength
to say your evening prayer?"

"Yes, mother."

Meekly folding the little thin, white hands,
he offered up his simple thanksgiving; then
said, "Our Father." The little voice, towards
the end, was very faint and weak; and as he
finished, his head, which he had feebly tried
to bend forward, fell back more heavily on
Gabrielle's bosom.

"Good night, mother dear. Go to sleep."

"Good night, my darling. God bless you,
Willie, my child!"

And then they never spoke to one another
any more. One sweet look upwards to his
mother's face, and the gentle eyes closed for
ever.

As he fell asleep, through the parted
curtains, the morning light stole faintly in.
Another day was breaking; but before the
sun rose, Gabrielle's child was dead. Softly
in his sleep the spirit had passed away. When
Bertha came in, after the few hours' rest that
she had snatched, she found the chamber all
quiet, and Gabrielle still holding, folded in
her arms, the lifeless form that had been so
very dear to her.

There was no violent grief in her. His
death had been so peaceful and so holy, that
at first she did not even shed tears. Quite
calmly she knelt down by his side, when they
had laid him in his white dress on the bed,
and kissed his pale brow and lips, looking
almost reproachfully on Bertha as, standing
by her side, she sobbed aloud; quite calmly,
too, she let them lead her from the room; and
as they bade her, she lay down upon her bed,
and closed her eyes as if to sleep. And then
in her solitude, in the darkened room, she
wept quite silently, stretching out her arms,
and crying for her child.

For many years, two gentle, quiet women
lived alone, in the little cottage in the dell;
moving amongst the dwellers in that country
village like two ministering angels; nursing
the sick, comforting the sorrowful, helping
the needy, soothing many a deathbed with
their gentle, holy words; spreading peace
around them wheresoever their footsteps went.
And often in the summer evenings, one of
them, the youngest and most beautiful, would
wend her quiet way to the old churchyard;
and there, in a green, sunny spot, would calmly
sit and work for hours, while the lime-trees
waved their leaves above her, and the sunlight
shining through them, danced and sparkled
on a little grave.

OUR DOUBLES.

MY philosophy makes no pretence to be
elucidative or doctrinal; it is humbly suggestive.
I do not presume to explain or to advise;
I only crave the liberty, timidly and respectfully
to hint.

My philosophy, like my attire, is ragged.
It is disjointed, threadbare, looped and
windowed with the holes that have been picked
in it; patched, pinned instead of buttoned,
flimsy and unsubstantial, and consequently
undeserving (as all rags must be) of respect.
But it may serve to wile away some ten
minutes or so, even as a tattered little
ragamuffin was wont, in the days of long stages,
to amuse the outside passengers by keeping
pace with the "spanking tits " for the
contingent reversion of a halfpenny.

I have been philosophising lately, after my
poor manner, on the dualities of men and
women, of the properties we all have, more or
less, of casting our skin—of being one man
abroad and another at home, one character for
the foot-lights and another for the greenroom;
of the marvellous capacity with which we are
all gifted, in greater or smaller proportions,
for playing a part, and not only for playing
one radically and fundamentally different
from the one we enact in private life, but
for playing it simultaneously with the
other, and for being (to use a very trite
Malapropism) two gentlemen at once.
Everybody, so it seems to me, can be, and is
somebody else.

You know this already, you say, reader;