Hour after hour he sat there reading that little book; at first interested in it only because of its association with her—­his loved one; but at length beginning to feel the importance of its teachings and their adaptedness to his needs.  As he read, his convictions deepened the inspired declaration that “without holiness no man shall see the Lord,” and the solemn warning, “See that ye refuse not him that speaketh.  For if they escaped not who refused him that spake on earth, much more shall not we escape, if we turn away from him that speaketh from heaven,” filled him with fear of the wrath to come; for well he remembered how all his life he had turned away from the Saviour of sinners, despising that blood of sprinkling, and rejecting all the offers of mercy; and he trembled lest he should not escape.

Several times during the day and evening he laid the book aside, and stole softly into Elsie’s room to learn if there had been any change; but there was none, and at length, quite worn out with fatigue and sorrow—­for he had been several nights without any rest—­he threw himself down on a couch, and fell into a heavy slumber.

About midnight Adelaide came and woke him to say that Elsie had become calm, the fever had left her, and she had fallen asleep.

“The doctor,” she added, “says this is the crisis, and he begins to have a little hope—­very faint, indeed, but still a hope—­that she may awake refreshed from this slumber; yet it might be—­he is fearful it is—­only the precursor of death.”

The last word was almost inaudible.

Mr. Dinsmore trembled with excitement.

“I will go to her,” he said in an agitated tone.  “She will not know of my presence, now that she is sleeping, and I may at least have the sad satisfaction of looking at her dear little face.”

But Adelaide shook her head.

“No, no,” she replied, “that will never do; for we know not at what moment she may awake, and the agitation she would probably feel at the sight of you would be almost certain to prove fatal.  Had you not better remain here? and I will call you the moment she wakes.”

Mr. Dinsmore acquiesced with a deep sigh, and she went back to her post.

Hour after hour they sat there—­Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide, the doctor, and poor old Chloe—­silent and still as statues, watching that quiet slumber, straining their ears to catch the faint sound of the gentle breathing—­a sound so low that ever and anon their hearts thrilled with the sudden fear that it had ceased forever; and one or another, rising noiselessly, would bend over the little form in speechless alarm, until again they caught the low, fitful sound.

The first faint streak of dawn was beginning in the eastern sky when the doctor, who had been bending over her for several minutes, suddenly laid his finger on her pulse for an instant; then turned to his fellow-watchers with a look that there was no mistaking.