"God help me!" she murmured, as, pushing up a window-sash, she leaned out and looked at the quiet city of Memphis lying under the starry midnight sky, silent save for the occasional rumble of wheels in the distance telling the watcher that the work of death still went grimly on--the dead being hustled out of the way to make room for the sick and dying. The chilly night air, the cold white glimmer of the moon and stars, cooled the feverish blood that throbbed in her temples, a soft awe crept into her heart--the deep, all-pervading presence of God's infinity; and as she shut down the window and went back to the lounge, her pained, half-bitter retrospections were overflowed by something of that "peace which passeth all understanding." Sleep fell on her very softly--a deep, refreshing slumber--from which only the morning sunshine aroused her. She rose with renewed energy for her labor of love, and kept at her post for weeks afterward, with only occasional seasons of rest and sleep. Her superb organism kept her up through it all, aided and abetted by her unfaltering will. Through it all there came no tidings of her husband or child. Letters came often from the absentees in Europe, but without mention of either, and Grace began to feel herself a widow indeed. The Clendenons, too, were indefatigable in their exertions for the victims of the fever. They were always devoted and earnest in their efforts, and kept a watchful care, too, over Grace, whose zeal and willingness often outran her strength and power of endurance. Mrs. Clendenon's gentle, placid old face began to look many months older, but it was in Willard that the greatest change was perceptible. His cheerful spirit never flagged, but gradually the two women who loved him each in her own way, began to see that the tall, fine form grew thinner and slighter, the face paler, and a trifle more serious, while silver threads began to sprinkle themselves thickly in his dark hair. He was wearing out his strong young manhood in hard, unremitting toil, and leaving his constitution enfeebled and open to the attacks of disease. The idolizing heart of his mother noted all this with secret alarm, and she would fain have persuaded him to retire from his arduous duties and return to Norfolk. His gentle but firm refusal checked all allusion to the matter, and, as the weeks wore away, and the fever began to lose its hold and abate its virulence, she hoped that they would soon be released from their wearing tasks, and allowed time for recuperation. The contents of a letter received more than two months previous from Lulu weighed also on Mrs. Clendenon's mind, and she could not, as she often did in other matters, seek the sympathy of Grace, as Lulu had desired she should not know anything of it. So Mrs. Clendenon bore her burden of anxiety all alone, save for Him who carries the half of all our burdens. CHAPTER XXIV. LULU TO HER MOTHER.