wheeled chair, and Amelia Ellen was
building a bit of a fire in the fireplace because it seemed chilly, the
mother called Hazel to her and handed her a letter sealed and addressed
to her son.

"Dear," she said gently, "I want you to take this letter and put it away
carefully and keep it until I am gone, and then I want you to promise
that, if possible for you to do it, you will give it to my son with your
own hands."

Hazel took the letter reverently, her heart filled with awe and sorrow
and stooped anxiously over her friend. "Oh, why"--she cried--"what is
the matter? Do you feel worse to-night? You have seemed so bright all
day."

"Not a bit," said the invalid cheerily. "But I have been writing this
for a long time--a sort of good-bye to my boy--and there is nobody in
the world I would like to have give it to him as well as you. Will it
trouble you to promise me, my dear?"

Hazel with kisses and tears protested that she would be glad to fulfill
the mission, but begged that she might be allowed to send for the
beloved son at once, for a sight of his face, she knew, would be good to
his mother.

At last her fears were allayed, though she was by no means sure that
the son ought not to be sent for, and when the invalid was happily gone
to sleep, Hazel went to her room and tried to think how she might write
a letter that would not alarm the young man, while yet it would bring
him to his mother's side. She planned how she would go away herself for
a few days, so that he need not find her here. She wrote several stiff
little notes but none of them satisfied her. Her heart longed to write:
"Oh, my dear! Come quickly, for your beloved mother needs you. Come, for
my heart is crying out for the sight of you! Come at once!" But finally
before she slept she sealed and addressed a dignified letter from Miss
Radcliffe, his mother's trained nurse, suggesting that he make at least
a brief visit at this time as she must be away for a few days, and she
felt that his presence would be a wise thing. His mother did not seem so
well as when he was with her. Then she lay down comforted to sleep. But
the letter was never sent.

In the early dawn of the morning, when the faithful Amelia Ellen slipped
from her couch in the alcove just off the invalid's room, and went to
touch a match to the carefully laid fire in the fireplace, she passed
the bed and, as had been her custom for years, glanced to see if all
was well with her patient; at