A flashing drop from her blue eyes falls down upon the hand that still lies under the soft clasp of hers, and in low tones she answers: "Hush, now, you had better not talk any more. I fear you will overtask your strength. I am going to read some for you." And closing his eyes he listens peacefully to the sweet, tremulous voice that reads the fourteenth chapter of St. John, beginning: "Let not your heart be troubled." And thus the days pass by, each one stealing a hope from the watcher's heart, and so many hours from Willard's life. Their patience does not waver, nor does his quiet courage. He knows that the world is fair outside, that the Southern sky is blue and bright--that flowers are blossoming, that birds are singing--knows, too, that all "Creation's deep musical chorus, unintermitting, goes up into Heaven," and is fain to go with it. Very bravely and contentedly he breasts the dark waters, knowing that a strong arm upholds him, even His who said to the ocean's tumult: "Peace, be still!" Mrs. Clendenon has written to Lulu that he is ill, but ere that long delayed letter reaches her his wasted frame may perchance "be out of pain, his soul be out of prison;" for it is the last of March now, and Doctor Constant and his consulting physicians think that the fever is almost broken, and the crisis near at hand. What the result will be they almost certainly know, but still whisper feeble hope to the agonized heart of the mother, whose yearning prayer goes up to God that He will spare her first-born. He does not always answer such prayers in the way that seems good to us. But all the same, He who is Maker of all things, Judge of all things, judges best for us poor finite reasoners. "Who knows the Inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave-- Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. Be weeping o'er her darling's grave?" "Why? ah, why?" The answer to such queries we shall find written in letters of light, perchance, within the pearly gates of the new Jerusalem. Closer and closer yet grew the fond tie between mother and son as the long days waned to the lovely Southern twilight. Many gentle conversations blessed the absent sister from whom another letter came on the third of April, to say that no letters from home had reached her for a month; so she was still ignorant of that fatal illness her tender heart had foreboded mouths before. One portion of the letter which she specially desired her brother to read, he was too ill to see for several days after its reception. Not until after that night at whose eve Doctor Constant said sadly to his mother: "The fever is gone. It will be decided to-night. We shall know in the morning."