brother. It was the day that my boy was
laid in the ground that my Lily came back to
me, and I turned with  my great, undiminished,
concentrated power of loving to this
fragile little form. Perhaps it was my impatient
love, my hot kisses, that confirmed
the fever-poison in her veins. She woke in
the night, the second night after we had
buried her brother, burning hot, and talked
wildly of papa, of Harold, of Heaven. I called
Dr. Ryton and told him the child was restless
and not, I thought, quite well.

"I expected this," he answered. "Pray
Heaven she may recover!"

"It is not the fever," I said, speaking
against knowledge. "It is not the fever;
she has caught cold."

"We shall see," he answered.

Oh! how cruel his coldness seemed!

"You must save her!" I cried.

"I shall try!" he answered, "but if she dies—"

"Dies! Have you—has God, no pity?"
I interrupted.

There were many days of hope and fear.
Other physicians came, and were commanded,
implored, to save her. I prayed for her
life, wildly, on my knees, with all the power
I had. But she grew worse. One night
I could no longer bear to watch her sufferings.
I rushed out into the open air. It was a
fresh, blowing night, and moonlight. I ran
along the shore—the waves broke noisily
upon the beach. "Alone, alone, alone!"
that was all the wild winds and the wild sea
said to comfort me. Turn to Nature for consolation!
To "Nature, the mighty and all
pitying mother!" She flings back your
moan in your teeth! She mocks and echoes
your cry.

My head was hot,  and I felt bewildered, I
went to where the waves washed the stones,
—I knelt down and let one break over my
bowed head. Then I rose and shook my
wet hair to the cold wind,—that refreshed
me, and I turned to the house again.

A black shadow fell across my path. Dr.
Ryton stood between me and the setting
moon. My heart stood still; what tidings!
"She sleeps, you must not go in to her. We
think she is saved!" The words were spoken
in a cold voice, Dr. Ryton had no sympathy
with my grief, or joy. The cold words fell
on my spirit like heavenly dew, but as yet I
dared not hope.

As we entered the garden, I signed to him
to go into the house first. I stopped,—I fell
on my knees—what could I say?

"Oh, God! hast thou heard my prayer?
Is it for my sake thou sparest this flower!"
So I thought, but I could not pray then.

As I rose, again a shadow flitted before
the moon. I thought it had set—the shadow
fell so blackly on my face, but when I looked
up, I looked straight on, and into her white
serene face.

Mr. Morton was in the house: he met me
at the door, and led me into the room where
Dr. Ryton sat.

The two men looked at each other.

"Poor child!" the old man said, leading
me to a seat.

"Poor child!" he repeated, looking at me
tenderly. His gentle pity calmed me more
than aught else could do. With my thin,
shaking hands, I began to try and bind up
my heavy wet hair, conscious of my wild,
disordered look.

"Build up more patience than hope, Mrs.
Warden," Dr. Ryton said, and I started, it
was so long since anybody had called me by
that name. "All is uncertain, even yet;
on her waking, your child's life will hang
upon a thread; any agitation will snap it.
Every one about her must be calm and
quiet, and she will ask for you."

"You will be very composed and still, will
you not?" Mr. Morton asked; "even though
she should say things that would naturally
shock and startle you. Even though," he
continued, "she should speak of having seen
her father."

"Her father! yes! she spoke of him the
night she was taken ill," I answered, dreamily,
and I pressed my hand on my brow, there
was such pain there. But I subdued all sign
of emotion, indeed some spell seemed on me
that held me tranced. I rose to go away,—I
meant to sit outside my child's door, and
listen for her waking. Again Dr. Ryton and
Mr. Morton looked at each other, the latter
bowed his head.

Dr. Ryton spoke, very hesitatingly for him,
"One moment, Mrs. Warden. I have more
to say; for your child's sake, be calm. You
have never inquired where your husband
was buried, have never heard any particulars
of his—"

He did not say that last dread word, and
yet how loud it sounded to my consciousness,
—Death. A thrill of agony ran through me.

"Buried! Harold, my Harold, in the quiet
churchyard, in sound of the sea! But, no!
do not think I am wandering! I know you
mean my husband, not my child; both are
dead and buried."

They exchanged doubtful glances. "It
must be told now! " Dr. Ryton said, firmly.
"It is very important," he began, "for your
child's sake, that you should learn first from
us what she will tell you; for we fear if it
was left for her to tell, that the surprise
would overcome you, and that then your
agitation—"

"Why do you hesitate?" I exclaimed.
"Cannot I bear anything for her sake—my
only remaining treasure? Am I not used to
pain and sorrow? But I will not complain,
He is very good if He spares my child; and I
shall learn, from her, to thank Him."

"It is not bad news we have to tell you."

"No news can be good to me, save what
concerns her. If she lives, I may yet—but,
O, my husband!"