“That cup of coffee will give me strength to go through my heavy part to-night, but will leave me at its close more exhausted than ever; thus I discount future health and life for present bread.” And so she went off, her eyes gleaming under the excitement of a stimulant narcotic, as fatal, if not as disreputable, as opium or alcohol. Zuleime went up to her own room, and prepared the frugal supper for herself and the two children, that were still playing on the carpet. She got a double portion of milk from the German people, on account of her little guest, Ida declaring that she liked milk with corn cake crumbled in it better than anything, it was so sweet. And then when the babe was undressed and put to bed, the little girl’s eyes waxed heavy and dim, and Zuleime took her down stairs into her mother’s room, and disrobed and washed and prepared her for bed. And when the child was about to kiss her friend and spring into bed, Zuleime said— “Stop, Ida. Don’t you say your prayers?” “No, ma’am.” “But don’t you wish to?” “Oh, yes, ma’am,” said the child, and running back, she kneeled down at Zuleime’s knees, and placed her little hands together and looked up for instruction. Zuleime thought the shortest, simplest infant’s prayer she knew of was the best, because readily understood and easily remembered. And so she took the little one’s folded hands between her own, and bade her repeat after her— “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” “That is a sweet little verse. What _is_ my soul?” asked the child. Zuleime hesitated, puzzled for an answer; then she said for want of a better— “It is what you think with, and wonder with, and what you are sorry or glad with, and what will live forever.” “I love you with it then. Good-night, good, pretty lady.” “Good-night, sweet child.” And Zuleime laid her in the bed, and kissed her fair eyelids down to slumber. CHAPTER XXIV. THE CATASTROPHE. To die mid flame and smoke!—HALLECK