He went away, and returned a moment after with one, which he spread over Amy as she lay, but without, to Anne's astonishment, one loving word or even look. "Try and sleep," he said, gently, "I will call you in an hour." She thanked him, and closed her eyes. But long before the hour had passed away, she was at Bertie's bed-side, with the little head nestled in her bosom, and the soft, thin hand clasped in hers; he was too weak to say much, but he had named her, had recognised her; that was enough, he would not die now, without giving her one loving look. Die? Yes, she felt he would die, so thin and wasted, so hollow his cheeks, so weak, so utterly weak; and then the sorrowing faces of those around, the still graver one, and pitying words of the old doctor. Ah! there was no need to tell her; her boy, her beautiful boy, must die. Oh! the anguish of her heart, surely if a fervent prayer could save him, he would be saved yet. Anne stole away by and by to her husband, and found him busy unpacking a carpet bag. "I have been home and back again, Anne," he said, "and made Mary put together the few things she thought you might require. I hope you will find them all right." "Oh! Tom, I do believe you are the only devoted, kind husband in the whole world; how fortunate it was I married you when I did." "Why so?" he asked. "Because I see so many bad specimens of married life, that if I had waited until now, I would not have had you at any price." "Oh, yes, you would," he said. "Don't be so conceited," she replied, "remember you have never been drilled yet." "I have my wife to be conceited of," he said, fondly; "and now Anne, tell me what news of the child?" She was grave in a moment. "There is no hope. None whatever. Dr. Bernard gives none." "And the mother?" "She is very quiet, very submissive under it all." "She knows the worst, then?" "She guesses it, and bears up wonderfully. How it will be by-and-by, when the worst is over, I don't like, cannot bear to think of; you must come and talk to her then?" "I?" he said, "no, that will never do; she has her husband." "He's a wretch! I have no patience with him. As cold as an icicle." "My dear Anne," he said, reprovingly. "Oh! my dear Tom, I am so glad you are not like him," and then she burst out crying, a most unusual thing for her, "and I am so glad now I have no children: it must be dreadful to lose them. After this I will be the most contented little mortal going." And she went back again to Amy, leaving her husband somewhat surprised, and regretful that he should have consented to have allowed her to remain in a scene evidently too much for her. Bertie had roused again. "Where's Missy? I want Missy?" he said, feebly. The cry went like a sharp knife through the mother's heart. She brought him toys and pictures, telling him the history of each, and quieting him as well as she could. At first he was amused and interested, but he soon wearied, and said again, "I want Missy."