“Don’ talk so! don’ talk so, darlin’!” she cried, passionately.  “When you go, Ol’ Sophy’ll go; ‘n’ where you go, Ol’ Sophy’ll go:  ‘n’ we’ll both go t’ th’ place where th’ Lord takes care of all his children, whether their faces are white or black.  Oh, darlin’, darlin’! if th’ Lord should let me die fus’, you shall fin’ all ready for you when you come after me.  On’y don’ go ‘n’ leave poor Ol’ Sophy all ‘lone in th’ world!”

Helen came in at this moment and quieted the old woman with a look.  Such scenes were just what were most dangerous, in the state in which Elsie was lying:  but that is one of the ways in which an affectionate friend sometimes unconsciously wears out the life which a hired nurse, thinking of nothing but her regular duties and her wages, would have spared from all emotional fatigue.

The change which had come over Elsie’s disposition was itself the cause of new excitements.  How was it possible that her father could keep away from her, now that she was coming back to the nature and the very look of her mother, the bride of his youth?  How was it possible to refuse her, when she said to Old Sophy that she should like to have her minister come in and sit by her, even though his presence might perhaps prove a new source of excitement?

But the Reverend Doctor did come and sit by her, and spoke such soothing words to her, words of such peace and consolation, that from that hour she was tranquil as never before.  All true hearts are alike in the hour of need; the Catholic has a reserved fund of faith for his fellow-creature’s trying moment, and the Calvinist reread those springs of human brotherhood and chanty in his soul which are only covered over by the iron tables inscribed with the harder dogmas of his creed.  It was enough that the Reverend Doctor knew all Elsie’s history.  He could not judge her by any formula, like those which have been moulded by past ages out of their ignorance.  He did not talk with her as if she were an outside sinner, worse than himself.  He found a bruised and languishing soul, and bound up its wounds.  A blessed office,—­one which is confined to no sect or creed, but which good men in all times, under various names and with varying ministries, to suit the need of each age, of each race, of each individual soul, have come forward to discharge for their suffering fellow-creatures.

After this there was little change in Elsie, except that her heart beat more feebly every day,—­so that the old Doctor himself, with all his experience, could see nothing to account for the gradual failing of the powers of life, and yet could find no remedy which seemed to arrest its progress in the smallest degree.

“Be very careful,” he said, “that she is not allowed to make any muscular exertion.  Any such effort, when a person is so enfeebled, may stop the heart in a moment; and if it stops, it will never move again.”

Helen enforced this rule with the greatest care.  Elsie was hardly allowed to move her hand or to speak above a whisper.  It seemed to be mainly the question now, whether this trembling flame of life would be blown out by some light breath of air, or whether it could be so nursed and sheltered by the hollow of these watchful hands that it would have a chance to kindle to its natural brightness.