“Father, into thy hands we commit this spirit.  Thy will be done.”

In a moment more all was bustle and confusion.  The nurse was thoroughly awakened; the doctor cared for the poor childless father with the tenderness of a son; then came back to send John for help, and to give directions concerning what was to be done.

Through it all Ester sat motionless, petrified with solemn astonishment.  Then the angel of death had really been there in that very room, and she had been “so wise in her own conceit,” that she did not know it until he had departed with the freed spirit!

Florence really was sick, then—­dangerously sick.  The doctor had not deceived them, had not magnified the trouble as she supposed; but it could not be that she was dead!  Dead!  Why, only a few minutes ago she was sleeping so quietly!  Well, she was very quiet now.  Could the heart have ceased its beating?

Sadie’s Florence dead!  Poor Sadie!  What would they say to her?  How could they tell her?

Sitting there, Ester had some of the most solemn, self-reproachful thoughts that she had ever known.  God’s angel had been present in that room, and in what a spirit had he found this watcher?

Dr. Van Anden went quietly, promptly, from room to room, until every thing in the suddenly stricken household was as it should be; then he came to Ester: 

“I will go over home with you now,” he said, speaking low and kindly.  He seemed to under stand just how shocked she felt.

They went, in the night and darkness, across the street, saying nothing.  As the doctor applied his key to the door, Ester spoke in low, distressed tones: 

“Doctor Van Anden, I did not think—­I did not dream—.”  Then she stopped.

“I know,” he said, kindly.  “It was unexpected. I thought she would linger until morning, perhaps through the day.  Indeed, I was so sure, that I ventured to keep my worst fears from Mr. Vane.  I wanted him to rest to-night.  I am sorry—­it would have been better to have prepared him; but ’At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning’—­you see we know not which.  I thank God that to Florence it did not matter.”

Those days which followed were days of great opportunity to Ester, if she had but known how to use them.  Sadie’s sad, softened heart, into which grief had entered, might have been turned by a few kind, skillful words, from thoughts of Florence to Florence’s Savior.  Ester did try; she was kinder, more gentle with the young sister than was her wont to be; and once, when Sadie was lingering fondly over memories of her friend, she said, in an awkward, blundering way, something about Florence having been prepared to die, and hoping that Sadie would follow her example.  Sadie looked surprised, but answered, gravely: 

“I never expect to be like Florence.  She was perfect, or, at least, I’m sure I could never see any thing about her that wasn’t perfection.  You know, Ester, she never did any thing wrong.”