“I am, and so ought you to be, my dove. Come, loosen your wrapper; lie down on the bed beside me, and I will pat your little shoulder softly, until we both fall to sleep, as we used to do long ago, Margaret,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, speaking with a playfulness strange and incomprehensible to her child, who, though her heart seemed almost breaking, and though these tender words and acts weakened and unnerved her, prepared to comply. Once more she lay down by her mother’s side, and felt the gentle hand upon her neck, and the cooing voice in her ear, as that dying mother sought, as heretofore, to soothe her child to sleep. Let us draw the curtain and leave them so. The friends, dismissed from Mrs. Helmstedt’s deathbed, reassembled in the parlor. The doctor lingered there for a moment to take some little refreshment previous to resuming his watch in the spare room above. “What do you think of her now, doctor?” inquired Mrs. Compton. “I think, madam, that the quieter she remains the longer her life will last. She will live through the night probably--through the morrow possibly.” The night indeed was far spent. No one thought of retiring to rest. The doctor took a lamp and a book, and went softly upstairs to sit and watch in the room adjoining Mrs. Helmstedt’s. And the party who were left below gathered around the little wood fire that, even at this season, the chilly nights on the bleak island rendered necessary. Amid the distress and confusion that had reigned throughout the house since the mistress’ illness, no usual household duty, save only the getting of meals and the making of beds, had been attended to. Among other neglected matters, the window shutters had remained open all night. So that the first faint dawn of morning was plainly visible through the windows. As soon as it was daylight the sad party separated--old Mrs. Compton going about to take upon herself, for the better comfort of the family, the supervision of domestic affairs, and Nellie stealing softly on tiptoe up to the death-chamber. Nevertheless, the watchful old physician heard, and came to speak to her at his own door. “How has she passed the night, doctor?” “In perfect repose, as far as I can judge.” Nellie stole noiselessly into the room, softly took away the night lamp that was still burning, then gently opened a window to admit the fresh morning air, and finally went up to the bedside to gaze upon the mother and child. It was a touching picture. Both were sleeping. The shadows of death had crept more darkly still over Mrs. Helmstedt’s beautiful face, but she seemed to rest quietly, with one hand laid over Margaret’s shoulder, in a protecting, soothing manner. Margaret’s face had the troubled look of one who had been overcome by sleep, in the midst, and despite of great sorrow. As Nellie gazed, Mrs. Helmstedt, with the sensitiveness of the dying, perceived her presence, and opened her eyes. “How are you, dear Marguerite?” inquired Nellie.