For two or three weeks it went on thus, and then the last day came. He had been suffering very much with the terrible cough, each paroxysm of which shook the wasted frame with a pain that pierced to Gabrielle’s heart: and all day he had had no rest. It was a day in May—a soft, warm day. But the couch beneath the trees was empty. He was too weak even to be carried there, but lay restlessly turning on his little bed, through the long hours, showing by his burning cheek, and bright but heavy eye, how ill and full of pain he was. And by his side, as ever, Gabrielle knelt, soothing him with tender words; bathing the little hands, and moistening the lips; bending over him and gazing on him with all her passionate love beaming in her tearful eyes. But she was wonderfully calm—watching like a gentle angel over him. Through the long day, and far into the night, and still no rest or ease. Gabrielle never moved from beside him: she could feel no fatigue; her sorrow seemed to bear her up with a strange strength. At last, he was so weak that he could not raise his head from the pillow. He lay very still, with his mother’s hand in his; the flush gradually passing away from his cheek, until it became quite pale, like marble, the weary eye half closed. “You are not suffering much, my child?” “Oh! no, mother, not now. I am so much better!” So much better! How deep the words went down into her heart. “I am so sleepy,” said the little plaintive voice again. “If I go to sleep, wouldn’t you sleep, too? You must be so tired, mother.” “See, my darling, I will lay down here by you; let me raise your head a moment—there—lay it upon me. Can you sleep so?” “Ah! yes, mother; that is very good.” He was closing his eyes, when a strong impulse that Gabrielle could not resist, made her rouse him for a moment, for she knew that he was dying. “Willie, before you sleep, have you strength to say your evening prayer?” “Yes, mother.” Meekly folding the little thin white hands, he offered up his simple thanksgiving, then said, “Our Father.” The little voice toward the end was very faint and weak; and as he finished, his head, which he had feebly tried to bend forward, fell back more heavily on Gabrielle’s bosom. “Good night, mother dear. Go to sleep.” “Good night, my darling. God bless you, Willie, my child!” And then they never spoke to one another any more. One sweet look upward to his mother’s face, and the gentle eyes closed for ever. As he fell asleep, through the parted curtains, the morning light stole faintly in. Another day was breaking; but before the sun rose, Gabrielle’s child was dead. Softly in his sleep the spirit had passed away. When Bertha came in, after the few hours’ rest that she had snatched, she found the chamber all quiet, and Gabrielle still holding—folded in her arms—the lifeless form that had been so very dear to her.