her disease, and the strife-worn, wandering spirit returned to the
throne it had abdicated.

And now Mittie became conscious of the unbounded tenderness and care
lavished upon her by every member of the household, and of the
unwearied attentions of Arthur Hazleton. Helen herself could not have
been more kindly, anxiously nursed. She, who had believed herself an
object of indifference or dislike to all, was the central point of
solicitude now. If she slept, every one moved as if shod with velvet,
the curtains were gently let down, all occupation suspended, lest it
should disturb the pale slumberer;--if she waked, some kind hand was
ever ready to smooth her pillow, wipe the dew of weakness from her brow,
and administer the cordial to her wan lips.

"Why do you all nurse me so tenderly?" asked she of her step-mother, one
night, when she was watching by her. "Me, who have never done any thing
for others?"

"You are sick and helpless, and dependent on our care. The hand of God
is laid upon you, and whosoever He smites, becomes a sacred object in
the Christian's eyes."

"Then it is not from love you minister to my weakness. I thought it
could not be."

"Yes, Mittie. It is from love. We always love those who depend on us for
life. Your sufferings have been great, and great is our sympathy. Pity,
sympathy, tenderness, all flow towards you, and no remembrance of the
past mingles bitterness with their balm."

"But, mother, I do not wish to live. It were far kinder to let me die."

It was the first time Mittie had ever addressed her thus. The name
seemed to glide unconsciously from her lips, breathed by her softened
spirit.

Mrs. Gleason was moved even to tears. She felt repaid for all her
forbearance, all her trials, by the utterance of this one little word,
so long and so ungratefully withheld. Bending forward, with an
involuntary movement, she kissed the faded lips, which, when rosy with
health, had always repelled her maternal caresses. She felt the feeble
arm of the invalid pass round her neck, and draw her still closer. She
felt, too, tears which did not _all_ flow from her own eyes moisten her
cheek.

"I do not wish to live, mother," repeated Mittie, after this ebullition
of sensibility had subsided. "I can never again be happy. I never can
make others happy. I am willing to die. Every time I close my eyes I
pray that my sleep may be death, my bed my grave."

"Ah! my child, pray not for death because you have