It was a beautiful sight, and methinks the angels hovered round as that young disciple, apparently so near the portals of heaven, sought to lead her weeping father to the same glad world. Her words were soothing, and o’er his darkened mind a ray of light seemed feebly, faintly shining. Before the morning dawned he had resolved that if there still was hope for him he would find it. Many a time during the succeeding days he prayed in secret, not that Fanny might be spared, but that he might be reconciled to God. His prayer at length was answered, and Uncle Joshua was a changed man. He showed it in everything, in the expression of his face and in the words he uttered. For his Sunshine he still wept, but with a chastened grief, for now he knew that if she died he would see her in heaven. Where now was Dr. Lacey? Knew he not of the threatened danger? At his father’s bedside, where for many days his place had been, he had received from Mr. William Middleton a letter announcing Fanny’s illness, which, however, was not then considered dangerous. On learning the contents of the letter, the elder Mr. Lacey said, turning to his son, "Go, George, go; I would not keep you from her a moment." The doctor needed no second bidding, and the first steamer which left New Orleans bore him upon its deck, anxious and impatient. Fast the days rolled on, and they who watched Fanny alternately hoped and feared, as she one day seemed better and the next worst. Of those days we will not speak. We hasten to a night three weeks from the commencement of her illness, when gathered in her room were anxious friends, who feared the next day’s sun would see her dead. Florence, Kate and Mrs. Miller were there, with tearful eyes and saddened faces. Frank Cameron, too, was there. Business, either real or fancied, had again taken him to Kentucky, and hearing of Fanny’s illness, he had hastened to her. She had requested to be raised up, and now, leaning against her Uncle William, she lay in a deep slumber. In a corner of the room sat Uncle Joshua, his head bowed down, his face covered by his hands, while the large tears fell upon the carpeting, as he sadly whispered, "It’ll be lonesome at night; it’ll be lonesome in the morning; it’ll be lonesome everywhar." Florence stood by him, and tried by gently smoothing his tangled hair to express the sympathy she could not speak. Suddenly there was the sound of fast-coming wheels, and Kate, thinking it must be Dr. Gordon, whom they were each moment expecting, ran out to meet him. Nearer and nearer came the carriage, and as Kate was peering through the darkness to see if it were the expected physician, Dr. Lacey sprang quickly to her side. In Frankfort he had heard that Fanny could not live, and now he eagerly asked, "Tell me, Mrs. Miller, is she yet alive?"