ng that her mother still wept, she
said:

"Don't cry. Maybe I'll be better."

And then her eyes closed heavily, and she slept again.

"Joe," said Mrs. Morgan, after she had in a measure recovered
herself--she spoke firmly--"Joe, did you hear what she said?"

Morgan only answered with a groan.

"Her mind wanders; and yet she may have spoken only the truth."

He groaned again.

"If she should die, Joe--"

"Don't; oh, don't talk so, Fanny. She's not going to die. It's only
because she's a little light-headed."

"Why is she light-headed, Joe?"

"It's the fever--only the fever, Fanny."

"It was the blow, and the wound on her head, that caused the fever. How
do we know the extent of injury on the brain? Doctor Green looked very
serious. I'm afraid, husband, that the worst is before us. I've borne
and suffered a great deal--only God knows how much--I pray that I may
have strength to bear this trial also. Dear child! She is better fitted
for heaven than for earth, and it may be that God is about to take her
to Himself. She's been a great comfort to me--and to you, Joe, more
like a guardian angel than a child."

Mrs. Morgan had tried to speak very firmly; but as sentence followed
sentence, her voice lost more and more of its even tone. With the
closing words all self-control vanished; and she wept bitterly. What
could her feeble, erring husband do, but weep with her?

"Joe,"--Mrs. Morgan aroused herself as quickly as possible, for she had
that to say which she feared she might not have the heart to
utter--"Joe, if Mary dies, you cannot forget the cause of her death."

"Oh, Fanny! Fanny!"

"Nor the hand that struck the cruel blow."

"Forget it? Never! And if I forgive Simon Slade--"

"Nor the place where the blow was dealt," said Mrs. Morgan,
interrupting him.

"Poor--poor child!" moaned the conscience-stricken man.

"Nor your promise, Joe--nor your promise given to our dying child."

"Father! Father! Dear father!" Mary's eyes suddenly unclosed, as she
called her father eagerly.

"Here I am, love. What is it?" And Joe Morgan pressed up to the bedside.

"Oh! it's you, father! I dreamed that you had gone out, and--and--but
you won't will you, dear father?"

"No, love--no."

"Never any more until I get well?"

"I must go out to work, you know, Mary."

"At night, father. That's what I mean. You won't, will you?"

"No, dear, no."

A soft smile trembled over the child's face; her eyelids drooped
we