They came up slowly, the deathly pale man leaning partly on his stick, partly on the shoulder of the child, whose frame shivered with joy beneath his pressure, and whose eyes, beaming with affection, were uplifted to his. "Not here, don't sit down here," she cried, resisting his impulse to rest at the head of the stairs. "I have got a fire--the room is warm--just five steps more--don't stop till then!" He moved on, attempting to smile, though his lips were blue and his emaciated limbs shivered painfully. "There, sit down, father: I borrowed this rocking-chair of Mrs. Ford; isn't it nice? Let me put the pillow behind your head. Are you very sick, father?" His lips quivered out, "Yes, very!" She stooped down and kissed his forehead, then knelt by his side and kissed his hands, also, with such reverential affection. "Oh, father, father, how sorry I am; you will stay with us--you will stay at home now--they have let you grow worse at the hospital; but I--your own little girl--see if I don't make you well. You will not go to Bellevue again, father." "No, I shall never go back again; the doctors can do nothing for me, but I could not die without seeing you again--that wish was stronger than death." "Oh, father, don't." The sick man looked down upon her with his glittering eyes, and a pathetic smile stole over his lips. An ague chill seized upon him, and ran in a shiver through his limbs; but it had no power to quench that smile of ineffable affection--that solemn, sweet smile, that said more softly than words-- "Yes, my child, your father must die here in his poverty-stricken home." "No, no!" cried Mary, in fond affright; for the look affected her more than his words; "it is only the cold, your clothes are so thin, dear father--it is only the cold; a good warm cup of tea will drive it off. Here is the kettle, boiling hot; besides, you are hungry--ah, I thought of that; here are crackers and a dear little sponge-cake, and such nice bread and butter; of course, it's only the cold and the hunger. I always feel as if I should die the next minute, when we've gone without anything to eat a day or two; nothing is so discouraging as that." She ran on thus, striving to cheat her own aching heart, while she cheered the sick man. As if activity would drive away her fear, she bustled about, put her tea to drawing by the stove, spread the little table, and pulled it close to her father, and strove, by a thousand sweet caressing ways, to entice him into an appetite. The sick man only glanced at the food with a weary smile; but seizing upon the warm cup of tea, drank it off eagerly, asking for more. This was some consolation to the little nurse; and she stood by, watching him wistfully through her tears, as he drained the second cup. It checked the shivering fit somewhat, and he sat upwright a moment, casting his bright eyes around the room. "Isn't it nice and warm?" said Mary, as he leaned back. The sick man murmured softly--