After a little while she raised her eyes so wistfully to her nurse that Elfie bent down over her to hear what she might have to say. “How—long—have——” breathed Erminie, faintly, breaking off. “How long have you been ill, do you mean, dear? Only since the day before yesterday,” replied Elfie. “What makes—so weak?” panted Erminie. “Only your illness; but you are better now, and you will soon be strong again.” “You—think—so?” “I know so, dearest. But you must not fatigue yourself by talking so much. Try to sleep.” And before Elfie had well spoken this advice, Erminie had dropped as suddenly into sleep as a stone falls into a well. But this sleep was not quiet like the preceding one. As evening approached the sleeper became restless: tossing her limbs about, rolling her head, and rolling her eyes, and muttering in approaching delirium. But why should I repeat the horrors of that second night? It was but a reproduction of those of the first one. Again desperate remedies were applied to meet violent symptoms. And again the frenzy was subdued to quietness, but the sufferer meanwhile brought nearly to dissolution. And her medical attendant might well have said, with the conqueror of old: “Another such a victory and I am ruined.” By noon next day Erminie lay in sleep or stupor, with scarcely a sign of life in her aspect, with scarcely a hope of life in prospect. Elfie was forced to leave her for a few hours, that she—Elfie—might recruit herself with a bath and a nap. But early in the afternoon the faithful girl was again by the bedside of her friend. To her surprise she thought she saw symptoms of a favorable change. Erminie was breathing softly. She opened her eyes, and seeing Elfie, tried to put out her hand. Elfie took that pale hand and kissed it, and then stooped and kissed the still paler brow. “Elfie!” breathed the sick girl. “What is it, dearest?” “Must I——_die_?” “Nonsense, no, my dear, you are in no sort of danger.” Erminie smiled sadly and turned away her eyes. Presently her lips moved as if she would have spoken, and Elfie stooped to hear. “I want——” “What, dear Erminie?” “—My pastor—please.” “I will send for him, dear Erminie.” “Soon——now!” panted the sinking girl. “Yes, now, dearest, you shall have him,” said Elfie, who beckoned to Catherine to take her place at the bedside; and then left the room to have the wish of her friend gratified. Dr. Sales, the beloved and venerated pastor of the Rosenthal family had, since her father’s death, stood in a father’s position towards Erminie. With the deepest distress he had heard of that good girl’s illness. He had called every day to see her or to ask after her. He had not yet been permitted to make his presence known to her. But once or twice, while she lay in stupor, he had stood over her unconscious form, gazing anxiously down on her death-like face; or he had knelt beside her bed, praying silently for her recovery.