He was so happy to see us--so like a child that fears to give pain by its own pleasure. I think Jessie took heart after the first few moments; and I could see the old lady watching her in secret, as if she thought that, unless she were only a beautiful piece of marble, she must be softened now. "It was very selfish of me, Miss Jessie," he said, "to call you away from your amusements to visit a poor, sick fellow." "I was very glad to come," she replied; "my mother is so anxious about you, she could not rest till some of us had been here." "She is very kind," he said, with the touching smile of illness. At last we fell to talking quite cheerfully. I did my best to prevent the restraint we were all under becoming perceptible; I dare say it was blunderingly done, but it succeeded tolerably well. Bosworth made Jessie tell him all about her flowers--he was a great botanist--and I chimed in with the wonderful history of a nest of young birds I had found, and really made him laugh at my nonsense. But he was weak, and soon grew weary,--I saw it, and made Jessie a sign to go. "Not yet," he said, as we rose; "stay a while longer, please." So we sat down again, but I saw by his eyes that his senses began to cloud a little. "What is that hymn you sing, Miss Jessie?" he asked, suddenly; "it has been running in my head all the morning." Jessie could not speak; she was trying with all her might to keep back her tears; so I said,-- "You mean that little gem of Mrs. Hemans--'Child Amid the Flowers at Play.'" "Yes," he replied, "that is it. Won't you sing it for me?" It really was heroic, the way that poor girl struggled with herself and forced back her composure. She turned her face a little from the light and began to sing; her voice was very low and tremulous, but I never heard it sound so sweet; Bosworth lay back on his pillow and listened with a happy smile. "Thank you," he said, when she finished; "I can sleep now--you were very kind to come." He tried to take her hand, said a few more broken words, and then we went away. I saw that Jessie could endure nothing more. Old Mrs. Bosworth detected it too; she must have felt for the girl, and was grateful to her for that visit. She did not accompany us down-stairs, and I was glad to make our farewell as short as possible. The moment we were out of the house, Jessie gave way completely, and sobbed and wept as I never before saw her. "Do you think he will die, Aunt Matty?" she asked. "I do not; he is certainly better." "But he looks dreadfully; I never saw anybody altered so much." "You are not accustomed to fevers, my dear. I am, and he will get better. I am glad you have made this visit; it will do him good." "Then I am glad, too," she replied, wiping away her tears. "Oh! if anything had happened, I never should have forgiven myself."