“It is past that, sir—­past that,” was replied.  “There is no further any hope for me in the physician’s art.”

A sob choked all further utterance.

How oppressed was the cold-hearted, selfish man of the world!  His thoughts were all clouded, and his lips for a time sealed.  As the dying woman said, so he felt that it was.  The time of her departure had come.  An instinct of self-protection—­protection for his feelings—­caused him, after a few moments, to say, and he turned partly from the bed as he spoke—­

“Some of your friends should be with you, madam, at this time.  Let me go for them.  Have you a sister or near relative in the city?”

The words and movement of Mr. Jasper restored at once the conscious self-possession of the dying mother, and she raised herself partly up with a quick motion, and a gleam of light in her countenance.

“Oh, sir,” she said eagerly, “do not go yet.  I have no sister, no near relative; none but you to whom I can speak my last words and give my last injunction.  You were my husband’s friend while he lived, and to you has he committed the care of his widow and orphan.  I am called, alas, too soon! to follow him; and now, in the sight of God, and in the presence of his spirit—­for I feel that he is near us now—­I commit to you the care of this dear child.  Oh, sir! be to her as a father.  Love her tenderly, and care for her as if she were your own.  Her heart is rich with affection, and upon you will its treasures be poured out.  Take her! take her as your own!  Here I give to you, in this the solemn hour of my departure, that which to me is above all price.”

And as she said this, with a suddenly renewed strength, she lifted the child, and, ere Jasper could check the movement, placed her in his arms.  Then, with one long, eager, clinging kiss pressed upon the lips of that child, she sank backward on the bed; and life, which had flashed up brightly for a moment, went out in this world for ever.

CHAPTER III.

Leonard Jasper would have been less than human had he borne such an assault upon his feelings without emotion; less than human had his heart instantly and spontaneously rejected the dying mother’s wildly eloquent appeal.  He was bewildered, startled, even deeply moved.

The moment he could, with propriety and a decent regard for appearances, get away from the house where he had witnessed so painful a scene, he returned to his place of business in a sobered, thoughtful state of mind.  He had not anticipated so direct a guardianship of Ruben Elder’s child as it was evident would now devolve upon him, in consequence of the mother’s death.  Here was to be trouble for him—­this was his feeling so soon as there was a little time for reaction—­and trouble without profit.  He would have to take upon himself the direct charge of the little girl, and duly provide for her maintenance and education.