n, were it not that the image is made still more appalling by
the existence of life. Whilst in this position, motionless as a statue,
a voice from one of the beds called out "Jemmy," with a tone so low and
feeble that to other ears it would probably not have been distinctly
audible. He went to the bedside, and taking the candle in his hand,
said, in a voice that had lost its strength but not its tenderness:

"Well, Mary dear?"

"Jemmy," said she, for it was his wife who had called him, "my time has
come. I must lave you and them at last."

"Thanks be to the Almighty," he exclaimed, fervently; "and don't be
surprised, darlin' of my life, that I spake as I do. Ah, Mary dear," he
proceeded, with, a wild and bitter manner, "I never thought that my love
for you would make me say such words, or wish to feel you torn out of my
breakin' heart; but I know how happy the change will be for you, as
well as the sufferers you are lavin' behind you. Death now is our only
consolation."

"It cannot be that God, who knows the kind and affectionate heart you
have, an' ever had," replied his dying wife, "will neglect you and them
long,"--but she answered with difficulty. "We were very happy," she
proceeded, slowly, however, and with pain; "for, hard as the world was
of late upon us, still we had love and affection among ourselves; and
that, Jemmy, God in his goodness left us, blessed be his--his--holy
name--an' sure it was betther than all he took from us. I hope poor
Alley will recover; she's now nearly a girl, an' will be able to take
care of you and be a mother to the rest. I feel that my tongue's gettin'
wake; God bless you and them, an', above all, her--for she was our
darlin' an' our life, especially yours. Raise me up a little," she
added, "till I take a last look at them before I go." He did so, and
after casting her languid eyes mournfully over the wretched sleepers,
she added: "Well, God is good, but this is a bitther sight for a
mother's heart. Jemmy," she proceeded, "I won't be long by myself in
heaven; some of them will be with me soon--an' oh, what a joyful meeting
will that be. But it's you I feel for most--it's you I'm loath to lave,
light of my heart. Howsomever, God's will be done still. He sees we
can't live here, an' He's takin' us to himself. Don't, darlin', don't
kiss me, for fraid you might catch this fav----"

She held his hand in hers during this brief and tender dialogue, but
on attempting to utter the last w