God was his father, and he had nothing to fear; living or dying, it would be well with the boy who would not tell a lie even for promotion. And so, while the mother whose heart ached and throbbed with this new fear, and still found time to feel a thrill of pride in Lieutenant Eli, moved softly around the room, preparing the dainty supper for her child, Isaac slept peacefully, nor woke until the delicate repast was ready, and waiting for him on the little table by the bed. There was spiced chocolate to-night, and nice cream toast, with grape jelly, and a bit of cold baked chicken, and the highly-seasoned cucumber pickles Isaac had craved so much since his return, and which the physician said were good for him. And the best china cup was brought out, and the silver spoons marked with the widow’s maiden name, and a white napkin was on the tray; and Isaac, who enjoyed such things, knew why it was all done that particular night, just as the widow knew why, at bed-time, he asked Susan to read from Revelation, vii. 16, “They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” He was thinking of his heavenly home, while the mother was thinking of the time when he, who Jimmie Carleton had said “was not long for earth,” would be gone, and she could no longer do for him the little offices which gave her so much comfort. Since the dreadful days when she knew her boy was in prison, the widow had not felt so keen a pang as that which stirred her heart-strings now, when alone in her room she dropped in her quick, defiant way into the high-backed chair, and sitting stiff and straight, tried to face the future. It could not be that Isaac had only come home to die,—God would not deal thus harshly with her. He had spared Eli and John, He had promoted them both and He would not take Isaac from her. The boy was getting better, he was mending every day, or, at least, she had thought so, until Rose Mather came with her message of evil. Why could not Rose have stayed at home? Why need she come there and leave such a sting behind? The widow was growing very hard and wicked toward poor little thoughtless Rose, and her heart lay like a stone in her bosom, as for an hour or more she sat in her high-backed chair, thinking of the boy whose low breathings she could hear from the next room. He was sleeping, she thought, and she would steal softly to his side and see if it was written on his face that his days were numbered. But Isaac was not asleep, and he knew the moment his mother bent over him, and turning toward her, he whispered,