in that
there had been cruel neglect, the very gentleness and compassion of his
nature fired and glowed against him who had taken her from her home,
vowed to cherish her, and forsaken her at such a time. However, he was
softened by seeing him stagger against the wall, perfectly stunned, then
gathering breath, rush up-stairs without a word.

As Arthur pushed open the door, there was a whisper that it was he,
too late, and room was made for him. All he knew was, that those around
watched as if it was not yet death, but what else did he see on those
ashy senseless features?

With a cry of despair he threw himself almost over her, and implored her
but once to speak, or look at him. No one thought her capable even of
hearing, but at his voice the eyelids and lips slightly moved, and a
look of relief came over the face. A hand pressed his shoulder, and a
spoon containing a drop of liquid was placed in his fingers, while some
one said, 'Try to get her to take this.'

Scarcely conscious he obeyed, and calling her by every endearing name,
beyond hope succeeded in putting it between her lips. Her eyes opened
and were turned on him, her hand closed on his, and her features assumed
a look of peace. The spark of life was for a moment detained by the
power of affection, but in a short space the breath must cease, the
clasp of the hand relax.

Once more he was interrupted by a touch, and this time it was Sarah's
whisper--'The minister is come, sir. What name shall it be!'

'Anything--John,' said he, without turning his head or taking in what
she said.

The clergyman and John Martindale were waiting in the dressing-room,
with poor Violet's cathedral cup filled with water.

'She does not know him?' asked John, anxiously, as Sarah entered.

'Yes, sir, she does,' said Sarah, contorting her face to keep back the
tears. 'She looked at him, and has hold of his hand. I think she will
die easier for it, poor dear.'

'And at least the poor child is alive to be baptized?'

'O, yes, sir, it seems a bit livelier now,' said Sarah, opening a fold
of the flannel in her arms. 'It is just like its poor mamma.'

'Is it a girl?' he inquired, by no means perceiving the resemblance.

'A boy, sir. His papa never asked, though he did say his name should be
John.'

'It matters little,' said John, mournfully, for to his eye there was
nothing like life in that tiny form. 'And yet how marvellous,' thought
he, 'to think of its infinite gain by the