"Oh, don't, Isabel, don't talk in that way!" said Mary, "you are tired and hungry--she must be hungry," and Mary looked at the boy. "See how the shadows are slanting this way, and she hasn't tasted a mouthful since last night." "I don't know; I hadn't thought of it--but I believe I am hungry," and the big tears rolled over Isabel's cheeks. Mary arose and placed that little weary head upon the seat of her chair. "She isn't used to it, like us," she said, addressing the boy. "No," he answered, "she can't be expected to stand it as we should. I hope you have got something for her to eat; we haven't a mouthful up stairs, I'm afraid!" Mary went to the cupboard. It was empty--not a crust was there save the supper which had been put away for poor Chester the night before. Mary hesitated--it seemed terrible to offer that food to the poor child, and yet there was nothing else. Mary went up to Isabel, and whispered to her. "Have you a sixpence--or only a penny or two left of the money?" "No," replied Isabel, with a sob. "I spent the last for ice, and when I came back with it, she wasn't in the room. I flung the ice on the stand, and ran out into the street after her, but you know how it was--she has gone like him." Mary turned toward the cupboard; she placed the cold supper on another plate, and bringing it forth, spread a clean cloth upon the table, and placed a knife and fork. "Come," she said, bending over the sorrow-stricken child. "Isabel, dear, get up, and try if you can eat this--it will give you strength." The child arose, put back the dishevelled hair that had fallen over her face, and sat down by the table. She took up the knife and fork, but as her heavy eyes fell upon the contents of the plate, she laid them down again. "Oh! Mary, I mustn't eat that; he may come home yet, and what shall we have to give him?" Again the lame boy and Mary exchanged glances--both were pale, and the soft eyes of the boy glistened, with coming tears. He beckoned Mary to him, and whispered-- "Tell her now--she must know; if those men come back while she is hoping on, it will kill her." Mary stood for a moment, mustering strength for this new trial; then she crept slowly up to Isabel, and laid her thin arm around the child's neck. That little arm shook, and the low speech of Mary Fuller trembled more painfully still. "Isabel, your father will never want food again--they have brought him home--he is lying in there." "Asleep!" said Isabel, starting to her feet, while a flash of wild joy came to her face. "No, Isabel, he is dead!" Isabel stood motionless. Her arms fell downward, her parted lips grew white, and closed slowly together. The life seemed freezing in her young veins. "Come, and you shall see, Isabel, it is like sleep, only more beautiful," and Mary drew the heart-stricken child into the chamber of death.