"Ah! for the morrow bringeth such sorrow, Captured the lark, and life grew dim, There, too, the daisy, torn from the way-side, Prisoned and dying, wept for him. Once more the lark sung; fainter his voice grew; Her little song was hushed and o'er; Two little lives gone out of the sunshine, Out of this bright world for evermore." He paused and looked at her in the dim light. The young face was very pale, the dark eyes hollow with purple rings around them. "I would give the world, were it mine, for food for this dying child!" he thought, in bitter anguish. With a languid smile and in childish innocence, she said: "I like your little song, Monsieur Van Zandt. Do you know, I think it suits us two? You are the lark, and I the little daisy. And--and--we need not hope any longer, I am afraid. We will soon be gone out of life, like the lark and the little daisy." The last words were so faint as to be scarcely audible. Her eyes had closed while she uttered them, and now the golden head fell languidly against the back of her chair. With a cry of alarm, Eliot Van Zandt sprung to her side, and discovered, to his dismay, that she was quite unconscious. CHAPTER XXI. "Unconscious, and not a drop of wine or water with which to revive her--not even a breath of fresh air, though the whole world is so full of it!" he murmured, in despair. He flew to the water-pitcher in a wild hope, and found there a few spoonfuls which he had begged her to drink in the morning. She had pretended to do so, but here it was untouched. So terrible was his own thirst that his heart leaped at sight of it, but not for worlds would he have appropriated even one small drop from his companion in misery. Hastily pouring it into a glass, he pressed it against her lips, moistening them gently until they parted, and a few drops of the precious fluid passed between them and down her parched throat. A sigh heaved her breast, and her eyes unclosed. Eliot Van Zandt cried out in joy and relief, and laying her head back against his arm, he gently forced her to swallow the remainder of the water. It acted like a charm, for withdrawing her head from his arm, she sat upright, and said, in a weak voice: "I kept the water for you; I did not want to drink it." "Nonsense, child; I am strong, and did not need it," lightly. "But do you feel better now?" "Much better; but I think I will lie down, monsieur, I feel so tired. Is it bed-time yet?" trying to smile. He looked at his watch by the light that was so feeble now that he could scarcely see the hands moving across its face. "Yes, it is bed-time. It is past ten o'clock," he said; then, with hesitation: "Are you not too sick for me to leave you, child? I can sit here and watch you while you sleep."