"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at this moment dying."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of alarm.

"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor."

On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour, to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness.

But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said--

"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I will see her early," and he made a movement to go.

"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me truly--is she not dying?"

For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl, and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful struggle.

"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly.

"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly.

"If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it."

"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is,"

he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life, there is hope."

Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she p.r.o.nounced the name of Ellen quickly.

"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her.

"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any more--will you, Ellen?"

"No--no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly, her tears starting afresh.

The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions.

And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled, and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group there.

Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had pa.s.sed upon it; death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that knows no earthly waking.

After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent home.

The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully accepted.

During the day, and while Ellen, a.s.sisted by Jane and Mary, was at work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand.

"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of bombazine.

Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face flushed an instant, and then grew pale.

"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I have bought you one."

"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly embarra.s.sed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled and was hardly audible.

"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy.

"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.

"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take it."

Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of Ellen's un.o.btrusive grief did not come up and chide them.

IF THAT WERE MY CHILD!

"AH, good evening, Mr. Pelby! Good evening, Mr. Manly! I am glad to see you! Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some friends would step in."

"Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?" said Mr. Pelby, after they were all seated. "You look remarkably well. And how is your little family?"

"We are all bright and hearty," Mrs. Little replied, smiling.

"Little Tommy has just gone off to bed. If you had come in a few minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow. He's as lively and playful as a cricket."

"How old is he now?" asked Mr. Manly.

"He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next month."

"Just the age of my Edward. How much I should like to see him!"

"I don't think he has gone to sleep yet," said the fond mother of an only child, rising and going off to her chamber.

"You bachelors don't sympathize much with us fathers of families,"

said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby.

"How should we?"

"True enough! But then you can envy us; and no doubt do."

"It's well enough for you to think so, Little. But, after all, I expect we are the better off."

"Don't flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby. I've been"--

"Here's the darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he had gone reluctantly.

"Come to pa, Tommy," said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands. "Now ain't that a fine little fellow?" he continued, looking from face to face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible advantage that his night-gown would permit. And he was a sweet child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and cl.u.s.tering golden ringlets.

"Indeed he is a lovely child," Mr. Manly said earnestly.

"A very fine child," Mr. Pelby remarked, mechanically.

"We'll match him with the town!" broke in Mrs. Little, unable to keep down the upswelling, delighted affection of her heart.