Calista, at last awakened to her friend's true condition, staid by her night and day, hardly leaving the room except for her meals and a run in the fresh air now and then, when Miss Druett insisted upon it. She could not think; she dared not give way to grief. Her whole being seemed to be given up to the work of caring for her friend, and making her last days more comfortable. Mr. Alger and Mr. Lee came to see her; the former almost daily, and she seemed to enjoy their visits and their prayers, but she was unable to talk much at a time. Calista spent hours in reading the Bible and singing old familiar hymns, to the great but secret annoyance of Miss Priscilla. Miss Priscilla did not, could not, and would not believe that, "Druey" was going to die. It was all nonsense; she was a little unwell, and gave way instead of exerting herself and riding out. She was always thinking about herself and her bad feelings, just as though she, Miss Priscilla, was not a great deal worse. Then, veering round all at once, she declared it was all the fault of old Alger and his Methodistical cant putting gloomy ideas into Druey's head. It was coming home from those meetings in the dew which had brought on her cough; but she would get over it—yes, she would get over it in a few days. Oh, yes, if she wanted wine, she must have it, no doubt. Doctors were always making all the expense they could. "You can go down and get a bottle of that old Madeira," she said to Chloe; "get anything she fancies or the doctor orders. But it is a great shame; I shall die in the poor-house—I know I shall." "Well, what hurt will that do you?" asked Chloe, who spoke her mind on all occasions. "The next minute after you are dead, it won't make any odds to you whether you died in a poor-house or a palace." Miss Priscilla seized her favorite volume of Rousseau's "Confessions," made as if to throw it at the bold speaker, but thought better of it, and contented herself with a threatening look, as usual. "I really will discharge that woman; she grows more impudent every day," she said to herself as Chloe left the room; but she had said so at least once a month for the last twenty years, and still Chloe staid on. Miss Druett died peacefully at last, not without warning enough to send for Mr. Alger and Mr. Fabian. Miss Priscilla refused to believe it at first, then grew angry, then fell to crying, and finally into a fit, which seemed for a time likely to end her life with that of her friend. She really was very ill for several days, and Chloe had her hands full with her.