day
gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers.
There was little "talk" called for after that time--hardly any, though
never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful,
pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny
slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in
the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious
have no worse resting-place--would let every faint waking minute find
the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly
refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little
immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of
failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was
almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun."

Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid
long--never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps
unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own.
Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said
nothing. He seemed bewildered--or astounded. "I never knowed," he said
once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at
night--but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors--and
their word's about as good one side as 'tother."

At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was
there with the sleigh.

"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr.
Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."

"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."

"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"--she said with a
determinate quietness.

"How can I let you stay?--you ought not to watch here all night--unless
there were something for you to do."

"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that
were what she wanted to stay for.

"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,--"Faith--it is
near the dawning!--and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear
child, you ought not to watch here."

"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.

"I know--" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full
sympathy with all her wishes,--"but I think you ought not."

"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,--"that you wish me to
go?"

It was hard for him to say yes--but he did.

She sat still a moment, with her face i