“Oh, Carrie, Carrie,” sobbed the child, “don’t leave me till Maggie comes.”

There was a footstep on the stairs, and Carrie, without replying to her brother, said quickly, “Take this paper, Willie, and give it to father when he comes; let no one see it—­Lenora, mother, nor any one.”

Willie promised compliance, and had but just time to conceal the note in his bosom ere Mrs. Hamilton entered the room, accompanied by the physician, to whom she loudly expressed her regrets that her husband had not come, saying that she had that morning telegraphed again, although he could not now reach home until the morrow.

“To-morrow I shall never see,” said Carrie, faintly.  And she spoke truly, too, for even then death was freezing her life-blood with the touch of his icy hand.  To the last she seemed conscious of the tiny arms which so fondly encircled her neck; and when the soul had drifted far out on the dark channel of death the childish words of “Carrie, Carrie, speak once more,” roused her, and folding her brother more closely to her bosom, she murmured, “Willie, darling Willie, our mother is waiting for us both.”

Mrs. Hamilton, who stood near, now bent down, and laying her hand on the pale, damp brow said gently, “Carrie, dear, have you no word of love for this mother?”

There was a visible shudder, an attempt to speak, a low moan, in which the word “Walter” seemed struggling to be spoken; and then death, as if impatient of delay, bore away the spirit, leaving only the form which in life had been most beautiful.  Softly Lenora closed over the blue eyes the long, fringed lids, and pushed back from the forehead the sunny tresses which clustered so thickly around it; then, kissing the white lips and leaving on the face of the dead traces of her tears, she led Willie from the room, soothing him in her arms until he fell asleep.

Elsewhere we have said that for a few days Willie had not seemed well; but so absorbed were all in Carrie’s more alarming symptoms that no one had heeded him, although his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his head was throbbing with pain.  He was in the habit of sleeping in his parents’ room, and that night his loud breathings and uneasy turnings disturbed and annoyed his mother, who at last called out in harsh tones, “Willie, Willie, for mercy’s sake stop that horrid noise!  I shall never get asleep this way.  I know there’s no need of breathing like that!”

“It chokes me so,” sobbed little Willie, “but I’ll try.”

Then pressing his hands tightly over his mouth, he tried the experiment of holding his breath as long as possible.  Hearing no sound from his mother, he thought her asleep, but not venturing to breathe naturally until assured of the fact, he whispered, “Ma, ma, are you asleep?”

“Asleep! no—­and never shall be, as I see.  What do you want?”

“Oh, I want to breathe,” said Willie.

“Well, breathe then; who hinders you?” was the reply; and ere the offensive sound again greeted her ear, Mrs. Hamilton was too far gone in slumber to be disturbed.