"No, sweet one, no," replied her sister, "talk of anything you like; but where are you going?" "Mabel, dear," she returned softly, "I suffer such pain that I do not think it will be much longer--I must die soon, and then I hope I am going to that beautiful country we have talked of so often in the church-yard. I wish you could come with me, Mabel dear, for I dream so often that papa is waiting for me, and it is all so beautiful." A quiet pressure of her hand was the only answer. "But I cannot help thinking of you, love," continued Amy, "and what you will do without me when I am gone; but yet, Mabel dear, think how strange it would be to me to lie here always; and, if I grew big like this, you would only cry over me, as you do when you think I am asleep; so, Mabel dear, let me go to heaven." The last words were spoken in the coaxing tone with which she used so often to carry her point in some little argument, and, finding no answer, she pat her hand under Mabel's head, which was bent down, and raised it gently, her face was very pale, and tears were streaming from her eyes. "Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," cried Amy, "I, who have been such a trouble to you all my life, are you so sorry to part from me, your naughty child. But now, I know it was very good in you to correct me sometimes, or I never should have been as happy as I am, and now, I feel it to be all right that I should be in such pain. Will you not rejoice too, darling? Look at me, there are no tears in my eyes though I am talking of leaving you." But the moment the sisters' eyes met, Amy's were filled with tears, and her head sunk back exhausted. Mabel could not trust herself to say anything; but, gently smoothing her pillow, she suffered her own head to sink upon it, and, fatigued alike by grief and want of rest, she closed her eyes, and fell asleep. "Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep," Of what untold comfort are you to the mourner. Cares, that bow the head to the earth at night, seem lighter to the waking thoughts, refreshed, perhaps, by good angels while we sleep. Were there no such sweet forgetfulness of sorrow, could we bear to look upon it long? CHAPTER XVI. But oh! to him whose self-accusing thought Whispers: ''twas _he_ that desolation wrought.' HEMANS. "Fire! fire?" Who starts not at that terrible cry? The terrified women had scarcely told their tale, before all the men in the "Hargrave Arms" were on their feet, starting into the open air. They soon perceived cause for alarm. Proceeding from that quarter of the village where the houses lay closest together, rose a column of smoke and flame, blown hither and thither by the boisterous wind, which was spreading the red sparks in every direction, tossing them high in the air, and then suffering them to fall on some distant cottage, whose thatched roof rendered it a ready prey.