For two hours Willie lay awake, tossing from side to side, scorched with fever and longing for water to quench his burning thirst.  By this time Mrs. Hamilton was again awake; but to his earnest entreaties for water—­“Just one little drop of water, ma”—­she answered: 

“William Hamilton, if you don’t be still I’ll move your crib into the room where Carrie is, and leave you there alone!”

Unlike many children, Willie had no fears of the cold white figure which lay so still and motionless upon the parlor sofa.  To him it was Carrie, his sister; and many times that day had he stolen in alone, and laying back the thin muslin which shaded her face, he had looked long upon her—­had laid his hand on her icy cheek, wondering if she knew how cold she was, and if the way which she had gone was so long and dark that he could never find it.  To him there was naught to fear in that room of death, and to his mother’s threat he answered eagerly, “Oh, ma, give me some water, just a little bit of water, and you may carry me in there, I ain’t afraid and my breathing won’t wake Carrie up;” but before he had finished speaking his mother was again dozing.

“Won’t anybody bring me some water—­Maggie, Carrie—­Leno—­nobody?” murmured poor Willie, as he Wet his pillow with tears.

At last he could bear it no longer.  He knew where the water-bucket stood, and stepping from his bed, he groped his way down the long stairs to the basement.  The spring moon was low in the western horizon, and shining through the curtained window, dimly lighted up the room.  The pail was soon reached, and then in his eagerness to drink, he put his lips to the side.  Lower, lower, lower it came, until he discovered, alas I that the pail was empty.

“What shall I do? what shall I do?” said he, as he crouched upon the cold hearthstone.

A new idea entered his mind.  The well stood near the outer door; and, quickly pushing back the bolt, he went out, all flushed and feverish as he was, into the chill night air.  There was ice upon the curbstone, but he did not mind it, although his little toes, as they trod upon it, looked red by the pale moonlight.  Quickly a cup of the coveted water was drained; then, with careful forethought, he filled it again, and taking it back to his room, crept shivering to bed.  Nature was exhausted, and whether he fainted or fell asleep is not known, for never again to consciousness in this world awoke the little boy.

The morning sunlight came softly in at the window, touching his golden curls with a still more golden hue.  Sadly over him Lenora bent, saying, “Willie, Willie, wake up, Willie.  Don’t you know me?”

Greatly Mrs. Hamilton marveled whence came the cup of water which stood there, as if reproaching her for her cruelty.  But the delirious words of the dreamer soon told her all.  “Maggie, Maggie,” he said, “rub my feet; they feel like Carrie’s face.  The curbstone was cold, but the water was so good.  Give me more, more; mother won’t care, for I got it myself, and tried not to breathe, so she could sleep—­and Carrie, too, is dead—­dead.”