Thus wore on each weary hour; and, oh! how that young heart did yearn to pour forth its sorrows to his mother’s fond ear, that she might, at the throne of heaven, plead for his forgiveness. But when he gazed upon her tranquil slumber, and then around upon the cold, dark room, he could not wake her; it had been so long since she had slept. Perhaps she would be better in the morning; and at the thought, oh, what a thrill of joy shot through his heart. Where was his angel-guardian? Had that fled? Oh no, it hovered near, though shrouded; and on the wings of the winds was borne a prayer so sad, so mournful, that the angels paused in their songs of bliss around the throne of God. The morning-sun beheld the poor boy gazing in speechless agony upon the cold, stiff form of his dead mother, while the little Amy, to whom death was a stranger, endeavored by every fond endearment, to awake her from that long, long slumber. It was the hour of midnight; not a cloud veiled the faces of the clear stars, as they looked down in their silent beauty upon the slumbering earth, throwing around it a holy light, such as emanates only from those spheres unknown. One soft ray, borne upon the balmy breath of spring, stole through a casement, across the bed of a sleeping boy; and, as it rested on his downy cheek, one by one, the big tears started from his closed lids, and trembling upon the drooping lashes, dropped heavily upon his pillow, while in his feverish dreams, accents of love trembled upon his quivering lips, as he seemed endeavoring to clasp some cherished form. Near by was his celestial guardian, but a hazy mist obscured it, rising from that child’s fluttering heart, from which the angel seemed trying to obliterate with its tears, the dark unformed images traced thereon. The dreamer woke, and starting up, looked fearfully around; but as his eyes rested on his little sleeping companions, consciousness seemed to resume her throne. Creeping from his bed, he gazed awhile upon the shining stars, then throwing himself upon his pillow, wept long and bitterly. Again he went to the casement, and seemed watching for the coming dawn. Its gray robe at length appeared in the east, when hastily throwing on his clothes, he stole cautiously, as if fearful of awakening his companions, to a side door, and rapped. A harsh voice asked from within, “Who’s there?” “It is Arthur,” answered the child. “Do let me see dear sissy, before they come to take me away.” “There’s time enough—go to bed,” was the impatient reply. “Oh, good Mrs. Williams, do, do let me see her alone, before they are all up!” Whether the woman’s heart was touched, or that she foresaw she could not easily rid herself of his importunities, we know not, but rising and opening the door, she said, “You’re a very foolish boy, to be crying so about your sister! Like as not, you’ll never see her again after you leave here! But go down stairs, I’ll send her to you.”