“‘I will go with you, my child.’

“In a few moments we were on our way.  As we approached Mrs. Sinclair’s cottage, we perceived lights hurrying from one room to another.  Shuddering with dread, I drew closer to my father.  He softly opened the gate, and silently we passed through it.

“The doctor, who was just leaving the door, seemed greatly surprised to meet us there at that hour.  Words cannot describe my feelings, when in answer to my father’s inquiries, he told us that Amy was sick with brain fever.

“‘Her mother tells me,’ he continued, ’that she has not been well for several days, but that she was unwilling to remain from school.  She came home yesterday afternoon, it seems, very unlike herself.  She took no supper, but sat at the table silently, as if stupefied with grief.

“’Her mother tried every way to find out the cause of her sorrow; but in vain.  She went to bed with the same heart-broken appearance, and in less than an hour, I was summoned.  In her delirium she has been calling upon her dear Ruth, beseeching you with the most mournful earnestness to pity and to save her.’

“Bessie, may you never know how his words pierced my heart!

“My earnest plea to see Amy just one minute, prevailed with her widowed mother.  Kindly taking my hand—­the murderer’s—­she led me to the sick chamber.  As I looked on the sweet sufferer, all hope deserted me.  The shadows of death were already on her forehead and her large blue eyes.

“Kneeling by her bed, in whispered words my heart pleaded, oh, so earnestly, for forgiveness.  But, when I looked entreatingly toward her, in her delirious gaze there was no recognition.  No, Bessie, I was never to be comforted by the assurance of her pardon.

“When I next saw Amy, she was asleep.  The bright flush had faded from her cheek, whose marble paleness was shaded by her long eyelashes.  Delirium had ceased, and the aching heart was still.  That small, white hand, which had been held out tremblingly, to receive the blows of the harsh ferule, now lay lovingly folded within the other.  Never again would tears flow from those gentle eyes, nor that bosom heave with sorrow.  That sleep was the sleep of death!

“My grief was wilder, if not deeper, than that mother’s of whose lost treasure I had robbed her.  She forgave me; but I could not forgive myself.  What a long, long winter followed.  My sufferings threw me into a fever, and in my delirium I called continually upon Amy.

“But God listened to the prayers of my dear father, and raised me from this sickness.  And when the light footsteps of spring were seen upon the green earth, and early flowers were springing up around the grave of Amy, for the first time, I was allowed to visit it.

“My head swam, as I read, lettered so carefully on the white tablet:—­

“’Amy Sinclair, Fell asleep September third.’

“Beside that fresh turf I knelt down, and offered, as I trust, the prayer of faith.  I was there relieved, and strengthened too, Bessie,” said Aunt Ruth, as she laid her hand tenderly upon that young head bowed down upon her lap.