That familiar sight recalled the past; he thought of Jamie, and seemed to hear again the childish words, uttered long ago, “God will remember us.” Steps came and went along the lonely street, but the dark figure in the shadow never stirred, only stood there with bent head, accepting the silent rebuke that shone down upon it, and murmuring, softly,-- “God remember little Jamie, and forgive me that my love for him led me astray.” As Walter raised his hand to dash away the drops that rose at the memory of the boy, his eye fell on the ring he always wore for his dead mother's sake. He had hoped to see it one day on Bess's hand, but now a generous thought banished all others and with the energy of an honest purpose be hastened to sell the ring, purchase a little food and fuel, and borrowing a warm covering of a kindly neighbor, he went back to dispense these comforts with a satisfaction he had little thought to feel. The one lamp burned low; a few dying embers lay upon the earth, and no sound broke the silence but the steady rustle of Bess's needle, and the echo of Jamie's hollow cough. “Wrap it around Bess; she has given me her cloak, and needs it more than I,--these coverings do very well;” and as he spoke, Jamie put away the blanket Walter offered, and suppressing a shiver, hid his purple hands beneath the old, thin cloak. “Here is bread, Jamie; eat for Heaven's sake, no need to save it now;” and Walter pressed it on the boy, but he only took a little, saying he had not much need of food and loved to see them eat far better. So in the cheery blaze of the rekindled fire, Bess and Walter broke their long fast, and never saw how eagerly Jamie gathered up the scattered crumbs, nor heard him murmur softly, as he watched them with loving eyes,-- “There will be no cold nor hunger up in heaven, but enough for all,--enough for all.” “Walter, you'll be kind to Bess when I am not here?” he whispered earnestly, as his friend came to draw his bed within the ruddy circle of the firelight gleaming on the floor. “I will, Jamie, kinder than a brother,” was the quick reply. “But why ask me that with such a wistful face?” The boy did not answer, but turned on his pillow and kissed his sister's shadow as it flitted by. Gray dawn was in the sky before they spoke again. Bess slept the deep, dreamless sleep of utter weariness, her head pillowed on her arms. Walter sat beside the bed, lost in sweet and bitter musings, silent and motionless, fancying the boy slept. But a low voice broke the silence, whispering feebly. “Walter, will you take me in your strong arms and lay me on my little couch beside the window? I should love to see the cross again, and it is nearly day.” So light, so very light, the burden seemed, Walter turned his face aside lest the boy should see the sorrowful emotion painted there, and with a close embrace he laid him tenderly down to watch the first ray climbing up the old gray tower.