“We begin to see that there is no hope of Mary Ann’s recovery; the doctor told mamma so to-day, and he sent over Mr. Davis.” “Will grieving alter it?” Janey wept silently; there was full and complete confidence between her and Charles Taylor. She could tell him all her thoughts, her troubles, as she could a mother if she had one that loved her. “If she was more ready to go, the pain would seem less,” breathed Janey. “That is, we might feel more reconciled to losing her, but you know how she is, Charles, when I have tried to talk to her about Heaven, she would not listen. She said it made her dull; it gave her the horrors. How can she, who has never thought of God, be fit to meet him?” Janey’s tears were deepening into sobs. Charles Taylor thought of what the minister had said to him. His hand still rested on the head of Janey. “You are fit to meet him,” he exclaimed, sadly. “Janey, what makes such a difference between you, you are sisters, raised in the same home?” “I do not know,” said Janey, slowly, “I have always thought a great deal about Heaven ever since I first went to Sunday-school.” “And why not Mary Ann?” “She would not go; she liked balls, parties and such like.” Charles smiled; the words were so simple and natural. “Had the summons gone forth for you instead of her, it would have brought you no dismay?” “Only that I must leave all of my friends behind me,” she answered, looking up at him, a bright smile shining through her tears. “I should know that God would not take me unless it was for the best. Oh, Charles, if we could only save her!” “Child, you contradict yourself. If what God does must be for the best, you should reconcile yourself to parting with Mary Ann.” “Yes,” hesitated Janey, “but I fear she has never thought of it herself or in any way prepared for it.” “Do you know that I am going to find fault with you, Janey?” he added, after a pause. She turned her eyes upon him in complete surprise, the tears drying up. “Did you not promise me--did you not promise the doctor that you would not enter your sister’s chamber while the fever was upon her?” The hot color flashed into her face. “Forgive me, Charles,” she whispered, “I could not help myself; Mary Ann, on the fifth morning of her illness, began to cry for me very much, and mamma came to my room and asked me to go to her. I told her that the doctor had forbidden me and that I had promised you; it made her angry; she took me by the arm and pulled me in.” Charles stood looking at her; there was nothing to answer. He had known in his deep and trusting love that it was no fault of Janey’s. Thinking he was vexed, she answered, “You know, Charles, so long as I am here in mamma’s home, her child, it is to her that I owe obedience; as soon as I am your wife I shall owe it and give it to you.” “You are right, my darling.” “And it has been productive of no ill consequences,” she said. “I did not catch the fever; had I found myself growing the least sick, I should have sent