"Father, look at me," said the little creature, catching sight of her father. "Come and look at me, I'm so grand." She turned her small white face on the pillow as he entered, and was all unconscious both how long it was since she had set her eyes on him, and the cause. Emily had been dressing a number of tiny dolls for her, with gauzy wings, and gay robes; they were pinned about the white curtains of her bed. "My little fairies," she said faintly; "tell it, Mrs. Nemily." "The fairies are come to see if Nancy wants anything," said Emily. "Nancy is the little Queen. She is very much better this evening, dear John." John knelt by the child to bring her small face close to his, and blessed her; he had borne the strain of many miserable hours without a tear, but the sound of this tender little voice completely overpowered him. Emily was the only person about him who was naturally and ardently hopeful, but she scarcely ever left the child. He was devoured by anxiety himself, but he learned during the next two days to bless the elastic spirits of youth, and could move about among his other children pleased to see them smile and sometimes to hear them laugh. They were all getting better; Valentine took care they should not want for amusement, and Crayshaw, who, to do him justice, had not yet heard of little Janie's death or of Nancy's extremely precarious state, did not fail to write often, and bestow upon them all the nonsense he could think of. After his short sojourn in Germany, he had been sent back to Harrow, and there finding letters from the Mortimers awaiting him, had answered one of them as follows:-- LINES COMPOSED ON RECEIVING A PORTRAIT OF GLADYS WITH BLOB IN HER ARMS. I gazed, and O with what a burst Of pride, this heart was striving! His tongue was out! that touched me first. My pup! and art thou thriving? I sniffed one sniff, I wept one weep (But checked myself, however), And then I spake, my words went deep, Those words were, "Well, I never." Tyrants avaunt! henceforth to me Whose Harrow'd heart beats faster, The coach shall as the coachman be, And Butler count as master. That maiden's nose, that puppy's eyes, Which I this happy day saw, They've touched the manliest chords that rise I' the breast of Gifford Crayshaw. John Mortimer was pleased when he saw his girls laughing over this effusion, but anxiety still weighed heavily on his soul--he did not live on any hope of his own, rather on Emily's hope and on a kiss.