Nurse looked round as the door softly opened, for Clara had disappeared, and saw Mabel in her dressing-gown hesitating to enter. She had been startled from sleep by the bell, and became wide awake when her sister entered with a candle, and opening her desk commenced writing on a half-sheet of paper. "Clara, what is the matter?" and the startled child sat up in bed with a terrified fear in her face. Clara turned her white face towards her. "Mamma is dying," she said, in a calm tone, that told of deep agitation under restraint; "I am sending a telegram to papa." Before Mabel could realise the words, her sister had left the room, and meeting Sarah, she exclaimed-- "To Dr. Moore first, Sarah, and then to the railway station, and send this telegram. Say it is immediate, a case of life and death; anything to make them send it quickly." While she stood talking, Mabel in her dressing-gown and slippers flew past them in her way to her mother's room, and entered as we have seen. Quickly as Clara followed, she found Mabel already on the bed by her mother's side, holding her pale hand in hers, while nurse bathed the invalid's forehead with eau de Cologne, and wiped the pale lips from which the life-blood still oozed. A slight smile welcomed Clara, for Mrs. Franklyn's eyes were opened with the brightness of death, and wandered round the room as if in search of some one. Clara understood her. "Mamma darling, I have telegraphed for papa; he will soon be here." A look of thankfulness passed over the pale face, and the eyelids closed over the glistening eyes as if to wait in patience for her husband's arrival. For a time all was still. To aid the sufferer's breath nurse had left the door open, and the ticking of the hall clock could be heard distinctly. Clara, to conceal her agitated feelings, knelt by the bed and buried her face in the bedclothes. At length at the sound of the doctor's knock she started up and took her stand by her mother's pillow. Dr. Moore came prepared with stimulants. Sarah had told him what had happened, but he no sooner cast his eyes upon his patient than he knew her danger. No skill on earth could save her now. However, he administered a few teaspoonfuls of his remedy, which seemed to revive her as well as to stay the bleeding from the lungs. She seemed about to speak, when the doctor said-- "Not a word, my dear lady, not a movement; there is nothing so important now as quietness and rest." He placed his fingers on her pulse as he spoke, and felt the feeble fluttering which so often betokens the approach of death. For some time no one spoke. The invalid lay with closed eyes almost motionless. Through the open window came the balmy freshness of a summer evening air, and the sound of the rippling of the waves, as the dark tide of the Yarra flowed onward towards the sea.