“Miss Rossiter, if I am very sick, _very_,—I want _her_ to come,—_mother_,—Mrs. Schuyler,—you know.” “Yes, I know.” “And if I don’t know her, if I _never_ know her, tell her please, that I have loved her since I first saw her a bride in England, and gave the flowers to her; and tell her, too, I’ve loved that Heloise Fordham ever since Miss Armstrong told me about her and the lover who died, and my name is Heloise, too,—Gertrude Heloise,—and there’s a spot of blood right over my heart; she will find it there if I die.” “Yes, I will tell her.” “And tell Godfrey,—oh, what message shall I leave for Godfrey? Tell him I loved him,—more than he ever knew; but he must marry Alice for my sake. Tell him it was my wish.” “I’ll tell him.” “And Miss Rossiter, let me kiss you once, please, because you are so kind. I used to think you proud, and guess I did not like you, but I do now. I like everybody.” The kiss was given, and, strangest part of all, returned, for Miss Rossiter’s heart was very soft toward the young girl, who, having said all she had to say, folded her hands upon her bosom, and whispering the little prayer, “Now I lay me,” learned when she was a child, sank into unconsciousness, from which she did not awake until the first April rains were falling, and there was a breath of coming summer in the soft spring air. If that sickness can be called pleasant when the fever runs so high that the pulse cannot be counted, and the breath of life almost fleets away, then Gertie’s sickness was a pleasant one, and never sure before or since was there a patient so docile, and quiet, and manageable as she, taking always what they bade her take, lying just where they put her, and seldom moving hand or foot save as they moved them for her. Like Godfrey, she was out on the broad sea, sailing away to parts unknown, but with her there were no storms, no sudden lurches, no rollings, no pitchings, no swelling waves threatening to engulf her. All was smooth and quiet and calm, as a river of glass, and the sun by day shone upon the water, flecking it with spots of gold, while the moon and stars at night looked down on the blue expanse, and lit it up with sheets of silvery light, into which Gertie went gliding, with Godfrey at her side. Always Godfrey, who stood at the helm and managed the oars, and managed the sails, and talked to her of love, which it was right for her now to accept. In that pleasant dream there was no Alice in the way, no father to dissent, but all was bright and clear, and the boat went drifting on and on, always in moonlight or sunlight, always on a smooth, still sea, till they came in sight of a far-off country, where golden streets and gates of pearl gleamed in the setting sun, and the boat paused mid stream, and waited whether the soul would cross to the beautiful city, or turning, take the homeward route and come back to life again. It chose the latter, and came slowly back, with sails all