The woman fell into an uneasy slumber, and the hours waned, as the girl kept faithful "watch and ward." With the early morning light came a change. "Ruth, run for the neighbors," said Clemence, in frightened tones. "Your mother is worse," and the half-dressed child fled out of the house, crying bitterly. "Ruth, Ruth!" called the sufferer, "my poor darling." Clemence came to her side, "I sent her after Mrs Deane," she said, soothingly, "she will be back in a few moments." "It will be too late. I am going--oh, Father, forgive me? I cannot die in peace--my little Ruth, my little, helpless, confiding daughter, child of my love, I cannot leave her." The great, hollow eyes fastened themselves imploringly on her face. The young watcher felt as if the minutes were hours. She listened for the footsteps that came not. The woman's breath came quick in little gasps. She tried to speak, turned on her pillow and uttered a feeble word of anguish. Her eyes again sought the face of the young watcher, and she strove again to syllable incoherent questions. Clemence came nearer and bent over her, asking in earnest, agitated tones, "Will you trust your child with me? She shall be my own, own sister, and I will work for her, and love her, and watch over her, while life lasts?" A faint pressure of the cold hand, and a look of heavenly peace in the dying eyes, was her only reply. "She is gone!" said Clemence, as Mrs. Deane appeared in the doorway, "Come to me Ruth, you have lost your mother, but you have found a sister," and she clasped the sobbing little one to her arms. "Well, if that don't beat all," said Mrs. Wynn. "Whoever heard of such goin's on? What is the girl goin' to do with that beggar-child, I'd like to know? A lone female, too, with no one to protect her, and nothing but one pair of hands. She's spoilt her market by that move. There ain't a young feller in Waveland got courage enough to make up to her now, for all that pretty face; nobody wants to take a young'un that don't belong to 'em, on their hands to support. She's clean crazy to do it. "Rose, you'll have to finish the dishes and clean up, if it _is_ Saturday, for I'm a goin' round to Miss Pryor's. I can't keep that to myself over Sunday, not if a whole passel of ministers was to come here to dinner, and I love my reputation for neatness, entirely."