I laid aside my papers, and accompanied Mr. Cornelius home. He passed into his own room, with the little table and the two chairs; I ascended to his daughter’s chamber. What a mockery was there of all that this world loves so much, strives after, and wins, with loss of body and of soul! Upon a bed, canopied with rich stuffs of woven silk and gold, with curtains of satin, rose-colored, and tugged with tassels of silver, spread with the finest linen, and covered with flowers, worked upon a ground of velvet, lay Anne, the miser’s daughter, pale and emaciated, and with her eyes, to whatever point they might turn, resting upon some new evidence of her father’s wealth and worldliness, upon some new evidence of the cause of all her sorrow. Her physician stood at her bed-side; as I entered he raised his finger to his lips, and came to me. “She is passing away,” he whispered. I approached the bed slowly, and on tiptoe. Anne felt my presence in the air, and turning her face toward me, held out her hand. I took it in mine. “I have called you,” said she, in a voice scarcely audible, “to take leave of you. You have been my good friend since the day that we first met in your office; I a poor woman, striving for that which I have long since found to be of little worth; when I am gone, transfer your friendship to my father. Tell him where I may be found, and bid him there seek for me. Oh, God! how long have I wrestled with thee, in bitter prayer, for this favor; thou wilt not, in the end, deny it to me. Farewell! We shall meet again! I go to my mother. Now bring my father to me, and let us be alone together.” The physician pressed her hand in silence, turned to the wall, and went out. I followed, and we both hastened to call Mr. Cornelius. We found him counting over a bag of silver, which he had just received from a tenant. “How is my daughter? Better—well?” he asked, still continuing to count, and to test the genuineness of the metal by ringing it upon the table. “Sir—your daughter is dying.” “Dying!” and the coin rolled merrily upon the floor. “Dying—doctor? Tut, tut. You jest.” “Mr. Cornelius, your daughter wishes to speak with you, to give you her last words in life.” “_Charlatan_—quack—driveler—you lie!” cried the miser with livid lips, starting to his feet, and shaking his clenched hands in the physician’s face. “Die!—my daughter shall not die—she cannot die—the children of the rich never die—what would you have? Gold!—here is a bill for fifty thousand—save my daughter—ay, I will make it a hundred thousand—but save my daughter—poor, poor, poor Anne!” and his head fell, and rested upon his breast. The old man stood before us motionless, transfixed with grief. “Mr. Cornelius.” “Oh, I am sick with much sorrow! Lend me your arm? Did you not say something of twenty per cent?” I led him away to his daughter’s chamber. As we entered, her face was turned toward us. “Who said that my daughter was dead?” asked Mr. Cornelius. Anne feebly smiled.