eam and frightens the
boarders."

"Oh, I '11 stay with her till you come back. I'd rather; I shall be so
anxious to hear what the doctor says. Please go, Mrs. Doyle, and
hurry."

Etta Mountjoy had a way with her that could not be resisted by most
people, and even Mrs. Doyle, not overgifted with the milk of human
kindness, could not refuse her. So she went downstairs, and only
stopping to put on her bonnet and tell her eldest daughter to go on with
the preparations for breakfast,--which always had to be made over
night,--as she was going out for a little while, walked swiftly down the
street.

Etta sat on the hard chair by the patient's bed, and for some time
watched the tossing limbs, heavy breathing, and flushed, excited face.
She was not used to sickness. Indeed, she had never seen it since her
mother died, so long ago that she could not remember the pain and the
suffering, but only the terrible results, which were pale, cold death,
the coffin, the funeral, and the grave.

Did all severe sickness end in death, she wondered? Was this strong,
healthy girl about to die? And if so, was she ready? She had never
thought of the possibility of death in connection with any of her
scholars. Had she taught them the things which alone could be of value
to them when they came to stand face to face with a holy God? What
advantage then would be familiarity with dates, with geography, and with
catechisms? How would they then blame her for not having pointed them to
the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world? The
responsibility of undertaking to deal with human souls, upon which she
had so thoughtlessly rushed, now seemed to her something terrible. True,
she had not then known or understood anything about it; but,
nevertheless, it now seemed to her a great sin, and an earnest prayer
for forgiveness rose up from her heart, accompanied by another for the
salvation of the sick girl before her.

Meanwhile the moments rolled slowly by: the sick girl tossed and moaned;
the church-bells rang for evening service, first merrily, as glad to
call the people to the house of God; then slowly, as loth to stop while
any more stragglers might be induced to come; then with one or two long
sobs for those who, in spite of all persuasion and all "long-suffering
patience," wilfully stay outside, stopped, and the silence was only
broken by the shouts of the noisy children below. Even these ceased at
last, and as the sunset glow faded--fla