“I can’t trust the nurse.  She has been broken of her rest, and is weary.  I want you to keep awake.  If she” (nodding toward Florence) “stirs, give her a spoonful from that tumbler on the stand.  I shall be back at twelve.  If she wakens, you may call her father, and send John for me; he’s in the kitchen.  I shall be around the corner at Vinton’s.”

Then he went away, softly, as he had come.

The lamp burned low over by the window, the nurse slept on in her arm-chair, and Ester sat with wide-open eyes fixed on Florence.  And all this time she thought that the doctor was engaged in getting up a scene, the story of which should go forth next day in honor of his skill and faithfulness; yet, having come to watch, she would not sleep at her post, even though she believed in her heart that, were she sleeping by Sadie’s side, and the doctor quiet in his own room, all would go on well until the morning.

But the doctor’s evident anxiety had driven sleep from the eyes of the gray-haired old man whose one darling lay quiet on the bed.  He came in very soon after the doctor had departed.

“I can’t sleep,” he said, in explanation, to Ester.  “Some way I feel worried.  Does she seem worse to you?”

“Not a bit,” Ester said, promptly.  “I think she looks better than usual.”

“Yes,” Mr. Vane answered, in an encouraged tone; “and she has been quite bright all day; but the doctor is all down about her.  He won’t say a single cheering word.”

Ester’s indignation grew upon her.  “He might, at least, have let this old man sleep in peace,” she said, sharply, in her heart.

At twelve, precisely, the doctor returned.  He went directly to the bedside.

“How has she been?” he asked of Ester, in passing.

“Just as she is now.”  Ester’s voice was not only dry, but sarcastic.

Mr. Vane scanned the doctor’s face eagerly, but it was grave and sad.  Quiet reigned in the room.  The two men at Florence’s side neither spoke nor stirred.  Ester kept her seat across from them, and grew every moment more sure that she was right, and more provoked.  Suddenly the silence was broken.  Dr. Van Anden bent low over the sleeper, and spoke in a gentle, anxious tone:  “Florence.”  But she neither stirred nor heeded.  He spoke again:  “Florence;” and the blue eyes unclosed slowly and wearily.  The doctor drew back quickly, and motioned her father forward.

“Speak to her, Mr. Vane.”

“Florence, my darling,” the old man said, with inexpressible love and tenderness sounding in his voice.  His fair young daughter turned her eyes on him; but the words she spoke were not of him, or of aught around her.  So clear and sweet they sounded, that Ester, sitting quite across the room from her, heard them distinctly.

“I saw mother, and I saw my Savior.”

Dr. Van Anden sank upon his knees, as the drooping lids closed again, and his voice was low and tremulous: