That night Emily retired to rest so full of thoughts of the morrow that she could not sleep. For one thing she feared that she should not wake early enough—her very bonnet and cloak were laid out ready to be put on when she should first get up; and then she was afraid her buckwheat cakes might not rise well on account of the cold, and _terribly_ afraid lest the cloud that obscured the moon should bring rain the next morning. At last she fell asleep, and it seemed to her that she had but just lost herself when she was aroused by a soft hand laid on her face. She threw up her own hand, half unconsciously, to remove it, when she heard her husband say, in feeble tones, “Emily, I am dying; get up, child.” She started up in vague alarm, for she was yet but half awake, struck a light, and passing around to the other side of the bed, let it shine in his face. His features were frightfully drawn and haggard, as though by a recent fit of agonizing pain—his voice was quiet, as he said,— “Blow out the candle, child, and open the window-shutters to let the moonbeams in, and come and sit by me, Emily.” She was wide enough awake now, and trembling in every limb, while she gazed upon that contorted countenance, and marked while he spoke the frightful ruin an hour had made of it. “You are ill—very ill!—let me call up Kitty and send for a physician,” said she, setting down the candle, and running to the door. He recalled her. “My Emily, come here—let Kitty sleep—do not disturb the household—send for no one, I insist—a college of doctors could not save me. My Emily, blow out the candle—it hurts me; there—now open the shutters so that I can see out into the free sky. Thank you, child. Now, Emily, wrap yourself in your cloak, and come and take this seat by my side.” Trembling with grief and terror, she did all that he requested, and finally, as she took the chair at the head of the bed, said,— “Oh, do give me leave to send for a physician—you have been in a fit or in agonizing pain, and may be so again; _do_ let me send for a physician.” “My child, whom would you send? Dr. Howe lives fourteen miles off; can you send Kitty at night so far?” “Oh! I could send her over to the village to knock up Mr. Green or some of the men, who will saddle a horse and go—do let me!” “Emily, before a messenger could _go_, much less _return_ with the doctor, it would be too late. Stay—do not leave me! I charge you do not leave me!” He grasped her hand convulsively, as a spasm beginning in his left shoulder and arm shook fearfully his whole person. Emily gazed, pale and cold as lead, and twice started up to call assistance, when both times the hand of the convulsed man tightened upon her wrist, and retained her in her seat. The fit at last was over, and he was looking into Emily’s face. “Oh! _what_ can I do for you?” she cried, “_do—do—do_ let me try something.” She was too much shocked for tears. “Do _only_ what I ask of you, dear child—stay by me. I am dying, Emily.”