er in his hand
unopened, and love for Hal rose above all my foolish tears, and so I
stood quietly waiting the denouement.

"Come into the other room with me, Emily; I have something to tell you."

He sat down on the little chintz-covered lounge, and I beside him.

"Emily, you are a strong woman, your heart will beat fast, but you will
neither scream nor faint when I tell you; your brother is ill. There was
a letter in the office and also a telegram at the depot. What will be
done, who can go to him?"

I did not scream or faint as he had said, but I clasped my hands tightly
and shut my eyes as if some terrible sight was before me, while my poor
heart grieved and brain reeled, as I thought, "Oh! he will die, poor
Hal! alone among strangers, and how would our patient mother bear it,
and what should we do!"

My face was white, I know, for grief always blanched my face and brought
those terribly silent tears, that fall like solemn rain drops--each a
tongue. You must remember that I was a smothered fire in those days.

Louis put his strong arm around me, and stroked my forehead as if I were
a child and he my mother.

"He will not die, little flower, thy brother will live; you must go to
him, and I will go with you. You must not go alone to a great city."

"Oh Louis!" I said, "he had only just begun to love me when he went
away, and now if he dies, what shall I do without him? Prayers have but
little weight, they ought to have saved him, I have prayed so long, so
hard, Louis, for his safety. But I must tell mother." And when she heard
me, and I said I must go to him, she sat down as if in despair; but a
moment after looked almost cheerful as she said:

"You must start to-night, my dear, and I must get all the little
medicines I can think of ready for you to take, and as soon as he is
able he must come home. If it is a fever, I fear for his lungs."

Clara waited until our talk was over, and then came and said Louis must
go with me; put into my hands a well filled purse, and said:

"Bring the brother back, dear cousin; don't wait for him to get well;
bring him back on a bed if necessary; he will never get well among
strangers."

When father came he was pained beyond expression, and his first thought
was for means to do all that must be done.

"Clara has provided that, father," and he was too thankful to reply.

Everything was ready; Louis and I said "good-bye" to all, and drove
rapidly away, for in order to reach