Mrs. Franklyn watched her eldest daughter with a feeling of sadness, as she placed herself where she could see her mother's face, and near the window to obtain light for her work. The November evening of the Australian spring was as light as with us an evening in May; and although the sun was approaching the west, yet the venetian blind was lowered to keep out his rays. Mabel, who had seated herself out of sight of her mother, soon became absorbed in her book; and as the sisters did not speak, Mrs. Franklyn was quite unaware of her presence. The mind of the mother rested with anxiety on the future of her eldest girl. She knew too well that she must soon leave these dear ones to the mercy of the world, and a careless though loving father. Her husband was still in the prime of life, a man of personal and social attractions, likely to marry again, no doubt a rich woman, ostensibly to obtain a second mother for his children. James, a boy of eleven, now at school, and Mabel, could be easily managed; about her baby Albert she had written to her brother, Henry Halford, a letter, which in a great measure influenced him in his future conduct. But Clara--high-spirited, determined, self-sufficient, impatient of rebuke, and womanly beyond her age in both manners and appearance--what would she be without the loving, cautious guidance of her own mother? These painful reflections agitated the invalid. More than once a violent fit of coughing had brought Clara to her side with a remedy. After awhile she sunk into a kind of doze. Nurse came to summon Mabel to bed, but the mother seemed to be sleeping so peacefully that the little girl left the room without saying good night. Nearly an hour passed, and then the hall clock struck nine. Mrs. Franklyn started at the sound, although it seldom disturbed her at other times. "Clara," she said faintly. The child rushed to her bedside quickly. "What is it, mamma?" and the tones were loving and tender. "Is your father come home?" "No, mamma. Shall I send for him?" But instead of a reply a sudden and violent cough attacked the invalid. Clara, as she had often done, placed her arm under her mother's head and raised her gently. This time the movement hastened the catastrophe. In a moment the blood burst from the invalid's mouth, covering quilt, sheets, and her night-dress with its ghastly stains. Although ready to faint with terror, Clara laid her mother down gently on the pillow, and rushing to the bell pulled it so violently that both servants were in the room even before its tones had ceased vibrating. "Run for Dr. Moore, run for your life, Sarah," cried nurse, as she approached the bed, and leaning over her mistress wiped the life-blood from her pallid lips. The dark eyes opened and the lips parted with a faint smile. "Don't speak, dear mistress," she said softly; "Dr. Moore will soon be here." The reply was a gentle movement of the head, which nurse readily understood to mean "too late."