And so the fell disease, pale and ghastly, stalked on, grasping its panting and unresisting victim, closer and more close; wasting her form—infusing the thirsty fever into her veins—parching her quivering lips into whiteness—drawing her breath—steeping her in unwholesome dews—and, at times, with a most cruel mockery, painting her cheek and lighting an _ignis fatuus_ in her eyes, to bewilder with false hopes of life, while life was failing! Sometimes she would talk of this life as if it were everlasting, and—looking over a worn memorandum-book of her father’s, in which all the battles _he_ was engaged in were chronicled after a soldier’s fashion; the day of the month noted, the name of the place, which added another to our wreath of glories, illuminated by the colours of his regiment rudely indicated by a star or an “_hurra_,” in a peculiarly cramped hand—she would become excited, and weave imaginary trophies, calling to her broken-hearted nurse to bring her the green laurel which her father loved to distribute among his comrades; these fever fits, however, were at long intervals, and brief; gradually as “the spring,” the physician had spoken of, advanced, the mingled hopes of this world, which are but as the faint shadowings of the great HEREAFTER, strengthened and spiritualized; and her thoughts were prayer, prayer to Him the Saviour and Redeemer; prayerful and patient she was, gentle and grateful; her perceptions which had been, for a time, clouded, quickened as her end drew near; she saw the furniture departing, piece by piece; at last she missed her father’s sash and sword; and when poor Mary would have framed excuses, she placed her quivering fingers on her lips, and spoke more than she had done for many days. “God will reward you for your steadfast love of a poor parentless girl; you spared _my treasure_ as long as you could, caring nothing for yourself, working and starving, and all for me. Oh, that the world could know, and have belief in the fervent enduring virtues that sanctify such rooms as this, that decorate bare walls, and make a bright and warming light when the coal is burnt to ashes, and the thin candle, despite our watching, flickers before the night is done. I have not thought it night, when I felt your hand or heard you breathe.” Oh! what liberal charities are there of which the world knows nothing! How generous, and how mighty in extent and value, are the gifts given by the poor to the poor!