“I shall come very soon, my child; and meanwhile I shall pray for you, and for all, most fervently. But, come, we will walk together as far as the garden.” And summoning the priest who had accompanied him, and who had been looking at the books in the library during this conversation, they were about to descend the stairs, when Mrs. Grey came forward to meet them. “O F. du Pont!” she exclaimed impetuously, “will you not come and look at my poor brother, and tell me what you think of him? They say priests know so much.” And then she burst into tears. F. Joseph tried to soothe her with hopeful words, and, when they reached the door of the darkened chamber, she was again calm. The good priest’s face expressed the sympathy he felt as they entered softly, and stood where they would not attract the attention of those restless eyes. Mr. Carlisle was wakeful and watchful, but comparatively quiet. It was pitiful to see with what rapid strides the fever was undermining that manly strength, and hurrying on towards the terrible moment of suspense when life and death confront each other in momentary combat. With an earnest prayer to God, the priest again raised the heavy damask curtain, and softly retired, followed by Mrs. Grey. “Will he recover?” was her eager question. “Dear madam,” replied he, “I think there is much room for hope, though I cannot deny that he is a very sick man. For your encouragement, I can tell you that I have seen many patients recover in such cases when it seemed little short of miraculous. It will be many days yet before you must think of giving up good hope. And remember that all your strength will be needed.” “Oh!” said Mrs. Grey impulsively, “I could not live if it were not for Assunta. She is an angel.” “Yes, she is a good child,” said the priest kindly; “and she is now going to obey some orders that I have given her, that she may return to you more angelic than ever. Dear madam, you have my deepest sympathy. I wish that I could serve you otherwise than by words.” The two priests bade Assunta good‐by at the garden gate. F. Joseph’s heart was full of pity for the young girl, whose act of sacrifice in surrendering human happiness for conscience’ sake had been followed by so severe a trial. But, remembering the blessed mission of suffering to a soul like hers, he prayed—not that her chalice might be less bitter, but that strength might be given her to accept it as from the hand of a loving Father. And so Assunta, putting aside every thought of self, took her place in the sick‐room. She had a double motive in hanging her picture of St. Catherine, from which she was never separated, at the foot of the bed. It was a favorite with Mr. Carlisle, and often in his delirium his eyes would rest upon it, in almost conscious recognition; while to Assunta it was a talisman—a constant reminder of her mother, and of those dying words which now seemed stamped in burning letters on her heart and brain.