They found both Mr. Warren and Alice asleep, but Miss Elinor’s kiss awoke the latter, who uttered a cry of joy at the sight of her friend and benefactress. The sick man, too, ere long, awoke, but only to doze again, and as the day wore on he continued in a state of stupor, from which it was difficult to rouse him. Just before the sun was setting, however, consciousness returned, and he asked for Alice, who in a moment was at his side. Winding his arm lovingly around her neck, he prayed that the God of the fatherless would not forsake her when she should be alone. “I am going from you, Alice,” he said, “going to your mother, who has waited for me all day, and the pain of death would scarce be felt did I know what would become of you.” “Tell him, Richard,” whispered Miss Elinor, and advancing to the bedside, Mr. Howland said: “Your daughter shall live with me when you are gone.” “God bless you,” came feebly from the dying man, while the fair head resting on his bosom was a moment uplifted, and Mr. Howland never forgot the grateful, glad expression of the soft blue eyes which looked into his face. “I, too, will care for Alice so long as my life is spared,” said Mr. Huntington, who had been there all the day, and again from the white lips a faint “God bless you” came. Slowly toward the western horizon sank the setting sun, and when at last his farewell beams looked into that room of death, they shone on the frosty hair and still white face of one who was no longer blind, for to him the light of a better world had been revealed, and the eyes so long in darkness here were opened to the glories of the New Jerusalem. Every necessary care was bestowed upon the dead, and then, leaving the orphaned Alice in Miss Elinor’s arms, with Mr. Howland standing near and speaking to her an occasional word of comfort, Mr. Huntington started for his home, walking slowly, sadly; for his heart was full of sorrow—sorrow for the dead and sorrow for his only child, who had so cruelly deceived him. What her motive was he could not guess, unless it were that she dreaded the disgrace his presence might bring upon her, and when he thought of this, he half resolved to leave her forever, but love for his wife prevailed, and with an aching heart he kept on his way. * * * * * Restless and impatient Adelaide had passed the day in wondering what had happened to Mr. Howland, and why he was not at the party. She had confidently expected him there, but he had disappointed her, and the lace dress with which she hoped to impress him was worn for naught. “Parties were bores, anyway,” she said, “and she hoped she should never attend another so long as her name was Adelaide Huntington.”