Mary Ashley--a fair, gentle little girl, with large brown eyes, like Henry's--stepped forward, full of sympathy. "I have heard of your sister from Anna," she said. "She is welcome to read all my books; you can take some to her now, and change them as often as you like." How pleased William was! Mary selected four, and gave them to him. "Anna Ross," "The Blind Farmer," "Theophilus and Sophia," and "Margaret White." Very old, some of the books, and childish; but admirably suited to what people were beginning to call Jane--a dying child. "I say," cried out Henry, a little aristocratic patronage in his tone, as William was departing, "how do you get on with your Latin?" "I get on very well. Not quite so fast as I should with a master. I have to puzzle out difficulties for myself, and I am not sure but that's one of the best ways to get on. I go on with my Greek, too; and Euclid, and----" "How much time do you work?" burst forth Henry. "From six o'clock till half-past nine. A little of the time I am helping my brothers." "There's perseverance, Henry!" cried Mrs. Ashley; and Master Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Anna," began William, as they walked along, "how do you know that Janey is so ill?" "Now, William, thee must ask thy mother whether she is ill or not. She may get well--how do I know? She was ill last summer, and Hannah Dobbs would have it she was in a bad way then; but she recovered. Dost thee know what Patience says?" "What?" asked William eagerly. "Patience says I have ten ears where I ought to have two; and I think thee hast the same. Fare thee well," she added, as they reached her door. "Thank thee for coming for me." William waited at the gate until Anna was admitted, and then hastened home. Jane was alone, working as usual. "Mamma, is it true that Janey is dying?" Jane's heart gave a leap; and poor William, as she saw, could scarcely speak for agitation. "Who told you that?" she asked in low tones. "Anna Lynn. _Is_ it true?" "William, I fear it may be. Don't grieve, child! don't grieve!" William had laid his head down upon the table, the sobs breaking forth. His poor mother left her seat, and bent her head down beside him, sobbing also. "William, for my sake don't grieve!" she whispered. "God alone knows what is good. He would not take her unless it were for the best." CHAPTER VII. THE END. April passed. May was passing; and the end of Jane Halliburton was at hand. There was no secret now about her state; but she was going away very peacefully. In this month, May, there occurred another vacancy in the choir of the cathedral. Little Gar--but he was growing too big now to be called Little Gar--proved to be the successful candidate; so that both boys were now in the choir. "It will be such a help to me, learning to chant, should I ever try for a minor canonry," boasted Gar, who never tired of telling them that he meant to be a clergyman.