“I know; I feel that here,” was replied, as a thin, white hand was laid against the speaker’s bosom.  “And I could patiently await my time, but”——­

Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart.

Too well did the dying man comprehend the meaning of this glance.

“God will take care of her.  He will raise her up friends,” said he quickly; yet, even as he spoke, his heart failed him.

“All that is left to us is our trust in Him,” murmured the wife and mother.  Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm.  She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain him, so far as she had the strength to do so.  And so she nerved her woman’s heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit of her husband.

“God is good,” said she, after a brief silence, during which she was striving for the mastery over her weakness.  As she spoke, she leaned over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of an angel on her countenance.

“Yes, God is good, Fanny.  Have we not proved this, again and again?” was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker’s pale face.

“A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!” said the wife, earnestly.  “He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children.”

“Yes, his children,” was the whispered response.  And over and over again he repeated the words, “His children;” his voice falling lower and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going thought found no longer an utterance.

Twilight had come.  The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as death.

“He sleeps,” whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from her reclining position on the bed.  “And dear Fanny sleeps also,” was added, as her eyes rested upon the unconscious form of her child.

Two hours later, and the last record was made in Ruben Elder’s Book of Life.

For half an hour before the closing scene, his mind was clear, and he then spoke calmly of what he had done for those who were to remain behind.

“To Leonard Jasper, my old friend,” said he to his wife, “I have left the management of my affairs.  He will see that every thing is done for the best.  There is not much property, yet enough to insure a small income; and, when you follow me to the better land, sufficient for the support and education of our child.”

Peacefully, after this, he sank away, and, like a weary child falling into slumber, slept that sleep from which the awakening is in another world.