That afternoon she had heard the rumor that the proud Miss Huntington was to be his wife, and though the idea that she, little Alice Warren, could ever be aught to him, had never entered her mind, the news affected her painfully, and as she sat alone that night, the world seemed darker, drearier than it had ever been before, while the future home of Richard Howland’s bride looked very pleasant to her. “Alice,” came faintly from her father, and in a moment Alice was at his side. “Alice, are you sewing to-night?” “Yes, father, I am sewing.” “But I thought you finished the vest this afternoon. What are you doing now?” Alice hesitated. She could not tell him she had sold her party dress, neither would she tell him a lie, so she finally said: “Adelaide came here while you slept, and I am fixing a dress for her to wear to Mrs. Hayes’ party. She gave me a dollar for it, too, and to-morrow I shall buy you the wine which Dr. Martin says you need, and maybe I’ll get you some oranges, too. Would you like some oranges, father?” “Yes, yes,” the tremulous voice replied, and the childish old man cried, as he thought that to-morrow he would have the wine and the oranges, too. The morrow came, and with it came the delicacies so long desired. But the sick man scarcely tasted them; “some other time he might want them more,” he said, and with a feeling of disappointment Alice put them away, while her father, turning wearily upon his pillow, prayed that the deep, dark waters, through which he instinctively felt that he must ere long pass, might not be suffered to overflow. But to Alice there came no forebodings like these. She only knew her father was very sick, and she fancied that the luxuries to which he had been accustomed would make him well again. So with untiring patience she worked on, thinking how the money which Adelaide was to pay her should be expended for her father’s comfort. Alas for the poor little girl, who, just as it was growing dark on the night of the party, folded carefully the finished dress, and then stole softly to her father’s bedside, to see if he were sleeping. He was very—very pale, and on his face there was a look like that of her dead mother. But Alice was not alarmed. She had never thought it possible for him to die, so quiet, so gentle, so uncomplaining he seemed. “Father” she said, “can you stay alone while I carry Adelaide her dress? She is to pay me more than that dollar, and I will buy you ever so many nice things.” “By and by,” he whispered, “it is early yet,” and drawing Alice to him, he talked to her of her mother, who, he said, seemed very near to him that night—so near that he could almost feel her soft hand clasp his own, just as it used to do in the happy days gone by. And while he talked the darkness in the room increased—the clock struck six, and releasing his daughter Mr. Warren bade her go. “He felt better,” he said, “and was not afraid to stay alone.”