It is useless as well as painful to note what followed; she faded and faded; yet the weaker her body grew, the clearer grew her mind, the more deep became her faith; she would lie for hours, sleepless, with her eyes fixed on what we should call vacancy—but which, to her, seemed a bright world of angels, with the Redeemer in the midst—murmuring prayers, and broken fragments of hymns, and listening to words of peace which no ear but her own could hear—her mind only returning to this world to bless Mary, when she came from her daily toil, or with the fruits of that solicitation, which she employed for her sake, to the last. The dog, too, the poor old dog, that had partaken of her bounty, shared in her poverty, and would stand with his paws on the bed, looking with his dim eyes into her face, and licking her hand whenever she moved or moaned. [Picture: Lucy in bed with dog and angels] It was again the anniversary of the battle of Toulouse, and Lucy remembered it; she begged the old woman not to leave her; _it would be her last day_; her mind wandered a little; and then she asked for a bough of laurel—and to sit up—and Mary went out to seek for a few green leaves. As she past hastily along, she met James Hardy stumping joyously onwards, and talking to himself, as if poor old John Coyne, who had been dead a year, was by his side; she saw he had something green in his hand, and she asked him to share it with her, for a poor girl, her “young lady,” the sergeant-major’s daughter, who was dying! The veteran did as she desired; but the bow was _yew_, not laurel. Well versed in omens, she returned it to him, burst into tears, and ran on. He had heard that Miss Lucy was ill; but age is often forgetful; he had not thought of it; yet now, the memory of the past rushed into his heart, and he discovered so quickly where “Irish Mary” lived, that when she was home again, with a fresh green sprig of laurel, James Hardy was weeping bitterly by Lucy’s side, while Lucy was in an ecstacy of joy. “Her father,” she said, “had come for her; there should be no more sorrow, no more pain; no more want for Mary or for her; her dear father had come for her.” By a strong effort, she laid her head on James Hardy’s shoulder, and grasped her nurse’s hard, honest hand. “I come, my FATHER!” she exclaimed, and all was over.