These details would only have worried and wearied her; but the auctioneer's loud voice had hardly died away, or the gathered footsteps scattered from the door, when the Doctor came to her chamber, flushed with triumph, to tell us that "Nobody now could turn us out; and everything was arranged for us to stay." Fanny looked brightly up to him, and answered: "Now I shall scarcely know what more to pray for, but God's reward for you." And most of all I thank Him for that news, because her last day on this earth was such a happy one. The next morning, just at dawn, she waked me, saying, "O Katy, tell the Doctor I can't breathe!" I sprang up, raised her on her pillows, and called him instantly. She stretched out her hand to him, and gasped, "O Doctor, I can't breathe! Can't you do anything to help me?" He felt her pulse quickly, looking at her, and said, very tenderly, "Have some ether, Fanny. I will run and bring it." Throwing wider open every window that he passed, he hurried down to the office and back with the ether. Eagerly, though with difficulty, she inhaled it; and it relieved her. I sat and watched her, silent, with her hand in mine. Presently the door behind me opened softly, as if somebody was looking in. "My dear," said the Doctor, turning his head, and speaking very earnestly, though in a low voice, "I _wouldn't_ come here. You can do no good." But presently his wife came in, in her dressing-gown, very pale, and sat by me and held the hand that was not holding Fanny's. And next I knew they thought she would not wake; and then the short breath stopped. And now it was my turn to stretch out my hands to him for help; but, looking at me, he burst into tears, as he had not when he looked at Fanny; and I knew there was no breath more for her, nor any ether for me. I did not want to go to sleep, because _I_ should have to wake again; but his wife was sobbing aloud. I knew how dreadful such excitement was for her; and so I had to do just as they wished me to, and let them lead me out and lock the door, and lay down on a bed and shut my eyes. PROTONEIRON. DECEMBER 9, 1864. "And in that sleep of death what dreams may come." The unresting lines, where oceans end, Are traced by shifting surf and sand; As pallid, moonlit fingers blend The dreamlight of the ghostly land. No eye can tell where Love's last ray Fades to the sky of colder light; No ear, when sounds that vexed the day Cease mingling with the holier night. As bells, which long have failed to swing In lonely towers of crumbling stone, Through far eternal spaces ring, With semblance of their ancient tone. The lightning, quivering through the cloud, Weaves warp and woof from sky to earth, In mist that seems a mortal's shroud, In light that hails an angel's birth.