Intimidated by his voice and manner, I sank down among my pillows, nor stirred again until I awoke from a sweet sleep into which I had fallen. This time he was gone, but Mrs. Lansing was with me, and the tones of her voice seemed unusually kind as she addressed me. Richard again came in, bearing a beautiful bouquet, which he presented to me “as a peace offering,” he said, “for having scolded me so in the morning.” Before night I was so much better that Ada, Lina, and Halbert came in to see me, each expressing their pleasure at my convalescence. But one there was who came not to greet me, and at whose absence I greatly marvelled. She had ever been the first to meet me in the morning, and the last to leave me at night. Why, then, did she tarry now, when I wished so much to see her? Alas, I did not know that never again would her home be gladdened by the sunshine of her presence, for it was Jessie whom I missed—Jessie for whom I longed—straining my ear to catch the sound of her ringing laugh, or bounding footsteps. At last, as the day wore on and she did not come, I asked for her and why she stayed so long away. Wringing her hands, Mrs. Lansing exclaimed, “Tell her, Richard, I cannot. It will kill me. Oh, Jessie, Jessie!” But I had no need for further knowledge. I saw what I had not before observed, viz., the mourning garments of those around me, and in tears of anguish, I cried, “My darling is dead!” “Yes, Jessie is dead,” answered Richard. “We shall never see her again, for she is safe in the Happy Land, of which you so often told her.” I could not weep. My sorrow was too great for tears, and covering my face I thought for a long, long time. “Why was it,” I asked myself, “that always when death had hovered near me, _I_ had been spared, and another taken,” for, as in the case of Jessie, so had it been with brother Jamie—they had died, while I had lived, and with a fervent thanksgiving to Heaven, which had dealt thus mercifully with me, I prayed that it might not be in vain.