The day waned, the evening shadows fell, and night came on. Upon a table at some distance from the bed was one thin tallow candle, the feeble flame of which flickered dismally. During the long weary hours Mrs. Farebrother did not sleep; she dozed occasionally; but the slightest sound aroused her. In her light slumbers she dreamt of incidents in her happy girlhood before she was married--incidents apparently trivial, but not really so because of the sweet evidences of affection which made them memorable: a song, a dance, a visit to the sea-side, a ramble in fragrant woods; innocent enjoyments from which sprang fond imaginings never to be realized. Betweenwhiles, when she was awake, the gloom of the room and the monstrous shadows thrown by the dim light upon portions of the walls and ceilings distressed her terribly, and she needed all her strength of mind to battle against them. In these transitions of sensation were expressed all the harmonies and discordances of mortal life. Bitter to her had been their fruit! An hour before midnight she heard the sound of carriage wheels without, and she sat straight up in her bed from excitement, and then fell back exhausted. "It is my sister," she said, faintly, to her husband. "Let her come up at once. Thank God, she is here in time!" Her sister bent fondly and in great grief over her. Between these two existed a firm and faithful affection, but the circumstances of Mrs. Farebrother's marriage had caused them to see very little of each other of late years. "Attend to my darling Phoebe," whispered Mrs. Farebrother; "there is no female servant in the house. Oh, I am so glad you have come before it was too late!" "Do not say too late, my dearest," said her sister; but her heart was faint within her as she gazed upon the pallid face and the thin wasted hands; "there are happy years before you." "Not one, not one!" murmured Mrs. Farebrother. "Why did you not send for me before?" The dying woman made no reply, and her sister undressed little Phoebe, and placed her in a cot by the mother's bedside. Then she smoothed the sheets and pillows, and sat quietly, with her sister's hand in hers. "It is like old times," murmured Mrs. Farebrother, wistfully. "You were always good to me. Tell me, my dear--put your head close to mine--oh, how sweet, how sweet! Were it not for my darling child I should think that Heaven was shining upon me!" "What is it you want to know, dear? You were about to ask me something." "Yes, yes. Tell me--are you happy at home?" "Very happy." "Truly and indeed?" "Truly and indeed. We are not rich, but that does not matter." "Your husband is good to you?"