e a
thunderbolt from Heaven, in her bosom. Already in her heart she
accused herself with being the murderess of her child. Already she
imagined, because her poverty had prevented her receiving medical
advice, that the accusing Angel stood ready to prefer charges against
her for another and a greater crime, than any she had ever before
committed.

"Dying! dying!" she uttered at last, her words issuing from her lips,
as if they were mere utterances from some machine. "No hope--no hope!"

"Accept my commiseration, madam," observed the physician, placing his
hat on, and preparing to depart. "Could I save your child, I would
gladly do so, but there is no hope. She may live until nightfall, but
even that is doubtful."

Bowing to Mrs. Wentworth, he left the room, in ignorance of the agony
his reproach had caused her, and returned to his office. Dr. Mallard
was the physician's name. They met again.

Ella had listened attentively to the physicians words, but not the
slightest emotion was manifested by her, when he announced that she
was dying. She listened calmly, and as the doctor had finished
informing her mother of the hopelessness of her case, the little pale
lips moved slowly, and the prayer that had been taught her when all
was joy and happiness, was silently breathed by the dying child.

"Mother," she said, as soon as Dr. Mallard had left the room. "Come
here and speak to me before I die."

"Ella! Ella!" exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth wildly. "Did you not hear what
the physician said?"

"Yes, mother," she answered, "but I knew it before. Do not look so
sad, come and speak to me, and let me tell you that I am not afraid to
die."

"Ella, my darling child," continued Mrs. Wentworth in the same strain.
"Did you not hear the physician say it is my neglect that had caused
you to be dying?"

"I heard him mother, but he was not right," she replied.

"Come nearer," she continued in an earnest tone. "Sit on the bed and
let me rest my head on your lap."

Seating herself on the bed, Mrs. Wentworth lifted the body of the
dying child in her arms, and pillowed her head on her breast. The old
negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking on quietly, while
the tears poured down her aged cheeks. Mrs. Wentworth's little son
climbed on the bed, and gazed in wonder at the sad aspect of his
mother, and the dying features of his sister.

"Mother," said the child, "I am going to Heaven, say a prayer for me."
She essayed to pray,