"I saw it all from the window, and thought that you might be glad to have some one sit with you," said the gentle boy, moving across the room. Mary looked up, and these low words unsealed her grief again. "Oh, Joseph! Joseph! they are gone. He is dead. He is lying in there, all alone!" "I know it," answered the boy, sitting down by her, "and I was just thinking how strange it was that people so handsome and so good, should be sick and die off, when such poor creatures as you and I are left." Mary looked up eagerly through her tears. "Oh, you don't know how I prayed, and prayed that God would only take me, and let him live! But He wouldn't; He didn't think it best; here I am, stronger than ever, and there _he_ is!" The boy sat still and mused, with his eyes bent on the floor. "It does seem strange," he said, after a time, "but then God ought to know best, because He knows every thing." "I said that to myself, when I saw him on the cart with that wicked, wicked Mayor looking on," answered Mary. "I dare say Mr. Chester was so good to every body that perhaps he had done enough, and ought to be in Heaven, and it may be that there is a great deal for you to do, yet, little and weak as you seem. I shouldn't wonder!" "What could I do, compared to him?" answered Mary, meekly. "I don't know, I am sure, but I dare say that God does," replied the little boy. Mary did not answer. Oppressed by the mournful solitude of the place, worn out by long watching and excitement, she could hardly find strength to speak. Still it was a comfort to have the boy in the same room, and his gentle efforts at consolation comforted her greatly. "That--that is Isabel's step," she said, at length, lifting her eyes and fixing them upon the door. "How slow--how heavy! She is alone, too. Oh, Joseph, do not go away, I cannot bear to tell her yet." "I will stay!" said the boy. The door opened, and Isabel came in. She was hardly beautiful then. Her cheeks were pale; her eyes heavy and swollen, and the raven hair fell in dishevelled waves over her shoulders. She crossed the room to where the two children sat, and seating herself wearily on the floor, laid her head in Mary's lap. "She is gone, Mary, I cannot find her anywhere," said the child. "I have been walking, walking, walking, and no mother--no father. I don't know where I have been, Mary, I don't know what I said to the people, but they couldn't tell me anything about them." "Poor Isabel!--poor little Isabel!" said Mary, laying her thin hand upon the child's head, and turning her mournful look on Joseph, who met the glance with a sorrowful shake of the head. "I am tired out, Mary. It seemed to me a little while ago, that I was dying; and if it hadn't been for thinking that you would be left alone, I should have been glad of it."