Then folding her hands over her heart, and lifting her eyes towards heaven with a look of sweet solemnity, and, in a voice so deep, bell-like, and beautiful that it scarcely seemed a human one, she said: 

“Out of the Depths have I called to Thee, and Thou hast heard my voice.”

And with these sublime words upon her lips she once more dropped away into sleep, stupor, or exhaustion—­for it is difficult to define the conditions produced in the dying by the rising and falling of the waves of life when the tide is ebbing away.  The beautiful eyes did not close, but rolled themselves up under their lids; the sweet lips fell apart, and the pearly teeth grew dry.

Old Mrs. Jones, who had been busy with a saucepan over the fire, now approached the bedside, saying: 

“Is she ’sleep?”

“I do not know.  Look at her, and see if she is,” replied the weeping sister.

“Well, I can’t tell,” said the nurse, after a close examination.

And neither could Hippocrates, if he had been there.

“Do you think she can possibly live?” sobbed Hannah.

“Well—­I hope so, honey.  Law, I’ve seen ’em as low as that come round again.  Now lay the baby down, Hannah Worth, and come away to the window; I want to talk to you without the risk of disturbing her.”

Hannah deposited the baby by its mother’s side and followed the nurse.

“Now you know, Hannah, you must not think as I’m a hard-hearted ole ’oman; but you see I must go.”

“Go! oh, no! don’t leave Nora in her low state!  I have so little experience in these cases, you know.  Stay with her!  I will pay you well, if I am poor.”

“Child, it aint the fear of losin’ of the pay; I’m sure you’re welcome to all I’ve done for you.”

“Then do stay!  It seems indeed that Providence himself sent you to us last night!  What on earth should we have done without you!  It was really the Lord that sent you to us.”

“’Pears to me it was Old Nick!  I know one thing:  I shouldn’t a-come if I had known what an adventur’ I was a-goin’ to have,” mumbled the old woman to herself.

Hannah, who had not heard her words, spoke again: 

“You’ll stay?”

“Now, look here, Hannah Worth, I’m a poor old lady, with nothing but my character and my profession; and if I was to stay here and nuss Nora Worth, I should jes’ lose both on ’em, and sarve me right, too!  What call have I to fly in the face of society?”

Hannah made no answer, but went and reached a cracked tea-pot from the top shelf of the dresser, took from it six dollars and a half, which was all her fortune, and came and put it in the hand of the nurse, saying: 

“Here! take this as your fee for your last night’s work and go, and never let me see your face again if you can help it.”

“Now, Hannah Worth, don’t you be unreasonable—­now, don’t ye; drat the money, child; I can live without it, I reckon; though I can’t live without my character and my perfession; here, take it, child—­you may want it bad afore all’s done; and I’m sure I would stay and take care of the poor gal if I dared; but now you know yourself, Hannah, that if I was to do so, I should be a ruinated old ’oman; for there ain’t a respectable lady in the world as would ever employ me again.”