Heather, as they drew near the bed, put her finger to her lips, as a warning for Agnes to utter no exclamation of surprise. “I do not want any one to know I am here,” Bessie whispered in her ear; “but I could not rest without seeing her. How is she now?” “Very quiet,” Agnes answered. Very quiet. Yes, too quiet, Bessie thought, as she bent over the child, for the great change to be far distant. Very quiet. Oh, woe! that the little busy feet should ever have grown so idle—that the restless body should ever have become so still! Very quiet—too quiet, for Bessie had to stoop down to hear if she still breathed. Quiet with the skin drawn tight over her face; with her hair, damp and thin, pushed back from her forehead; with her poor hands, which were now but skin and bone, lying listlessly out upon the coverlet, with her eyes closed and the fringed lashes sweeping her cheek; with her mouth parted a little, Lally was indeed at last very quiet—quiet enough to have contented any one who had ever thought her too full of health, and mirth, and spirits. Silently Agnes gave place to Bessie. She took her shawl away, and removed her bonnet, and carried them to a distant sofa. With a glance Bessie thanked her, and then she turned to the child again—her child—whom she had loved, petted, scolded, kissed, and teazed in the bright summer weather, and loved, and nursed, and tended, and left when the holly berries were shining above the little bed—her child of whom she had been so fond—her child who had been so fond of her, who had made such moan for Bessie, and yet who had now too nearly done with this world’s loves and pleasures to be told her old playmate was returned and standing close beside her. There was a great silence in the room. Upon the threshold stood the universal Conqueror, and already the child felt the chilling influence of his presence. With her hand clasped in Bessie’s the mother sat watching; with her head resting on the pillow Bessie looked at Lally, never removing her eyes from the child’s face. On the other side of the bed stood Agnes, leaning against the wall, weary and faint; but there was no sound of weeping in the apartment; they would not sob, they would not make lamentation to vex or disturb the spirit hovering on the dark shores of Eternity’s mighty ocean. They hushed their grief, and they bowed their heads in silent prayer, and the rustle of the angel’s wings—the angel who was come to fetch their darling—might almost have been heard through the stillness which abode in the room. All at once Bessie rose, and passing round the bed, asked Agnes in a whisper,— “Where is Arthur?” “At Mr. Crofts’,” was the reply. “Send for him,” said Bessie, and Agnes left the room.