both heard a terrible low cry of fear and
horror close beside us. It was hardly a cry, it was no noise that
either of us had ever heard before; and we stopped for an instant,
because we were too frightened to move. And the noise came again. We
were in an open place, and there was nothing to be seen; but we both
felt there was something there, and that the cry had some awful
meaning. And it was not many days before I had reason to remember that
cry; for the trouble came. I do not know what it might have been that
I heard; but I knew it had the saddest meaning.

Two or three weeks after we saw Mr. Whiston, my brother came in one
afternoon; and I saw he could hardly wait for some friends to go away,
who were paying me a call.

"I have found poor Whiston," said he, when I joined him in the library
at last: "he is at the Carney Hospital. It seems he was ill for a few
days at his hotel, and the servant, who was very kind to him, advised
him to go there. He insists that he is very comfortable, and that he
has money enough. I wished to bring him over here at first; but I saw
that it was no use, and I asked him why he didn't let me know, but he
is completely wrecked; I doubt if he lives more than a day or two, he
was wandering half the time I was there. He said he should be very
glad if you would come to see him, and I told him I was sure you
would."

I went to see him with my brother the next day, and I saw that Jack
was shocked at the change that had come already. There was that
peculiar, worried, anxious look in his face, that one only sees in
people who are very near death, and his fingers were picking at the
blanket. I do not believe he knew me; but he smiled,--he had a most
beautiful smile,--and I gave him some grapes, and wished I could make
him a little more comfortable. The sister came just afterward on her
round, and gave him his medicine, and raised him with a strong arm,
while she turned his pillow in a business-like way, and I thought what
a lonely place it was to be ill and die in; and I was more glad than
ever that Jack and I had a home, and were always to be together. I
left Jack to stay the night, and, as I came away, I had more and more
compassion for the man who was dying; yet I was glad to think so sad a
life was almost over with. His days had been all winter days in this
world, it seemed to me, and I hoped some wonderful, blessed spring was
waiting for him in the next.

When I went over in the morning,