And now they sit and read to her while the daylight flushes in noon--while it fades and wanes into the night--the night and dark of which she has a childish terror--read to her this gracious blessed Gospel, which does not address itself alone to the wise and noble, but is for the simple and for fools. Safe ground, poor soul, safe ground--for this is no scheme of electicism, no portal to the pagan heavens--and you cannot know yourself so low, so mean, as to escape the range of this great wide embracing arm. “I have not done all that I ought to have done,” murmurs poor Miss Annie. “Don’t leave me:” for she cannot rest except some one holds her hand, and has a faint superstitious trust in it, as if it held her sure. A little pause--again the fingers close tightly upon the hand they hold. “I never did any harm.” The words are so sad--so sad--falling out slow and feeble upon the hushed air of this darkening room. “But I never did any good--never, never.” The voice grows stronger. “Does anybody think I did? I--I--I never was very wise. I used to try to be kind sometimes;” and in a strain of inarticulate muttering, the sound died away once more. And then again the voice of the reader broke the silence. They scarcely thought the sufferer listened; for ever and anon she broke forth in such wavering self-justifications, self-condemnings, as these. But now there is a long silence; strange emotions come and go upon this old, old, withered face. The tears have been dried from her eyes for hours, now they come again, bedewing all her poor thin cheeks; but a strange excitement struggles with her weakness. Looking about to her right hand and to her left, the dying woman struggles with an eager defiance--struggles till, at a sudden climax, her broken voice breaks forth again. “Who said it was me--me--it’s not me! I never could win anything in this world--nothing in this world--not a heart to care for me. Do you think I could win Heaven? I say it is not me; it’s for His sake.” “For His sake--for His sake.” If it is a prayer that ends thus--if it is a sudden assurance of which she will not loose her hold for ever--no one can know; for by-and-by her panic returns upon Miss Annie. Close in her own cold fingers she grasps the hand of Menie Laurie, and whispers, “Is it dark--is it so dark to you?” with again a thrill of terror and trembling, and awful curiosity, wondering if this, perchance, is the gloom of death. “It is very dark--it is almost night.” The lamp is lighted on the table; let some one go to her side, and hold this other poor wandering hand. “Oh! not in the night--not in the night--I am afraid to go out in the night,” sobs poor Miss Annie; and with a dreadful suspicion in her eyes, as if of some one drawing near to murder her, she watches the falling of this fated night.