Meantime, as the hour for the morning train drew near, Carrie, resting upon pillows, and whiter than the linen which covered them, strained her ears to catch the first sound of the locomotive.  At last, far off through an opening among the hills, was heard a rumbling noise, which increased each moment in loudness, until the puffing engine shot out into the long, green valley, and then rolled rapidly up to the depot.

Little Willie had seemed unwell for a few days, but since his sister’s illness he had stayed by her almost constantly, gazing half-curiously, half-timidly into her face, and asking if she was going to the home where his mamma lived.  She had told him that Margaret was coming, and when the shrill whistle of the eastern train sounded through the room he ran to the window, whither Lenora had preceded him, and there together they watched for the coming of the omnibus.  A sinister smile curled the lips of Mrs. Hamilton who was present, and who, of course, affected to feel interested.

At last Willie, clapping his hands, exclaimed, “There ’tis!  They’re coming.  That’s Maggie’s big trunk!” Then, noticing the glow which his announcement called up to Carrie’s cheek, he said, “She’ll make you well, Carrie, Maggie will.  Oh, I’m so glad, and so is Leno.”

Nearer and nearer came the omnibus, brighter and deeper grew the flush on Carrie’s face, while little Willie danced up and down with joy.

“It isn’t coming here,” said Mrs. Hamilton; “it has gone by,” and Carrie’s feverish heat was succeeded by an icy chill.

“Haven’t they come, Lenora?” she said.

Lenora shook her head, and Willie, running to his sister, wound his arms around her neck, and for several minutes the two lone, motherless children wept.

“If Maggie knew how my head ached she’d come,” said Willie; but Carrie thought not of her aching head, nor of the faintness of death which was fast coming on.  One idea alone engrossed her.  Her brother—­how would he be saved from the threatened evil, and her father’s name from dishonor?

At last Mrs. Hamilton left the room, and Carrie, speaking to Lenora and one of the villagers who was present, asked if they, too, would not leave her alone for a time with Willie.  They complied with her request, and then asking her brother to bring her pencil and paper, she hurriedly wrote a few lines to her father telling him of what she had heard, and entreating him, for her sake, and the sake of the mother with whom she would be when those words met his eye, not to do Walter so great a wrong.  “I shall give this to Willie’s care,” she wrote, in conclusion, “and he will keep it carefully until you come.  And now, I bid you a long farewell, my precious father—­my noble Mag—­my darling Walter.”

The note was finished, and calling Willie to her, she said, “I am going to die.  When Maggie returns I shall be dead and still, like our own dear mother.”