"And then again I don't know," said the perplexed Timmins; "but I must run back to Tibbs--if you only _would_ look in on her, Mrs. Markham,"

said Timmins beseechingly, as she closed the door.

While the above conversation was pa.s.sing, the film gathered slowly over little Tibbs's eyes; the feet and hands grew colder--colder; drops of moisture gathered on the marble temples; the lips moved, but no sound came; a convulsive spasm shook the slight form, and little Tibbs was dead! None stood by to hold the feeble hand, or wipe the gathering death-damp from the pale lips and brow. No warm breath was proof to the dimmed eye and dulled ear of Love's dear presence.

Tibbs died _alone_.

And yet not alone, for He who loveth little children, folded her to His bosom.

"It is quite time she took her drops," said Timmins, re-entering the room; and holding the phial up to the light, and placing a spoon under its mouth, she commenced counting, "One--two--three--four--here Tibbie.

"What!"

The horror-struck Timmins darted through the door, and back to Mrs.

Markham.

"Oh, ma'am--oh, ma'am--she's gone--all alone, too--oh, Mrs. Markham--"

"Who's gone? what are you talking about, Timmons?"

"Tibbs, ma'am--Tibbs--while I was down here talking to you--and all alone, too--oh dear--oh dear--"

"Hold your tongue, Timmins; as if _your_ being there would have done any good?"

"Don't you think so, ma'am?" asked the relieved Timmins.

"No, of course not; the child's time had come--it is all well enough; you couldn't have helped it. Call Watkins, and tell her to go lay her out. I will be up when I have taken my nap. You stay there till Watkins has done, and then lock the door and take the key. What o'clock is it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Timmins. "Are you _sure_ it was just as well for Tibbs to die alone? I hope _I_ shan't die alone. Should _you_ like to die alone, Mrs. Markham?"

"That has nothing to do with it," answered Mrs. Markham, angrily; "go along, Timmins, and don't make a fool of yourself."

"Poor thing! poor thing!" exclaimed Watkins, as she untied little Tibbs's night-dress to wash her thin limbs, "_her_ sufferings are over.

I tell you, Timmins, there'll be a long reckoning for this some day. I had rather be Tibbs here than Mrs. Markham. She isn't a sparrow's weight," said Watkins, lifting the child. "Was she sensible when she died, Timmins?"

"Don't ask me--don't ask me. Oh, Watkins, _could_ I help it? I ran down to speak to Mrs. Markham, and--and--"

"She didn't die alone?" asked the horror-struck Watkins, laying the corpse back upon the pillow.

Timmins nodded her head, and sat rocking her figure to and fro.

"Now, don't say a word--don't say a word," said Timmins, "I know I shall be punished for it; but in deed I didn't mean no harm. I can't stay much longer in this house, Watkins."

Watkins made no reply, except by slow shakes of the head, as she drew on the little charity night-dress which was to answer for a shroud, smoothed the soft silken hair, and folded the small hands over the weary little heart.

"Do you know a prayer, Watkins?" asked Timmins, looking at the dead child.

"I know 'Our Father,'" replied Watkins, smoothing a fold in the shroud.

"Say it," said Timmins, reverently; "it won't do _her_ no good, but it will _me_."

"Our Father----"

"Got all through?" asked Mrs. Markham, throwing open the door; "that's all right. Now spread the sheet over her face--open the window--lock the door, and give me the key."

"Won't you come in, ma'am, and look at the child?" asked Watkins, stepping one side.

"No, it don't signify; you washed her and all that, I suppose. Come out, Timmins; and you, Watkins, run for the undertaker--the sooner the child is taken away the better; it is not healthy to have a corpse in the house," and Mrs. Markham applied her smelling-salts to her nose.

Watkins tied on her bonnet, and went sorrowfully down street for the undertaker.

CHAPTER VI.

Mr. Pall prided himself on the reverent manner in which he performed his necessary funereal duties. He always dressed in black, and sat, handkerchief in hand, in the middle of his coffin ware-room, in a prepared state of mind to receive customers.

He had every variety of coffin--from plain pine-wood up to the most polished mahogany and rosewood. His latest invention was "the casket,"

daintily lined throughout with white satin, and the lid so constructed as to expose the whole person instead of the face only, as in more common coffins. This was what Mr. Pall called "a dress coffin," and was perfectly consistent with any variety of adornment in the shroud that the fancy of grief-stricken affection might suggest.

When Watkins entered, Mr. Pall sat complacently in his chair amid his piles of coffins, with his hands solemnly folded over his handkerchief.

He would have scorned to disgrace his profession, like many others of the craft, by reading the newspapers in his sanctum, smoking a cigar, or in any other way conveying the idea that he had lost sight of his mournful calling. We are not bound, therefore, to believe, on the authority of a prying policeman's limited vision through the key-hole, that when the shop was closed, Mr. Pall nightly drew from an old-fashioned coffin a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars, wherewith to console himself for the day's solemn and self-inflicted penance.

"Good morning, m-a-a-m," drawled the dolorous Pall.

"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound, Mine ears attend the cry.'

"Want my mournful services, ma'am? I shall take a melancholy pleasure in showing you my coffins. Age of the corpse, ma'am?" and Pall used his white handkerchief.

"Six years."

"'Death strikes down all, Both great and small--'

"Place of residence, ma'am?

"Orphan Asylum, eh?" repeated the disappointed Pall, as his vision of the costly casket pattern faded away; "pine coffin, of course--no satin lining or silver nails--no carriages--night burial, Potters' Field, etc.

"'Lie in the dust, We all must.'