Arthur, as Bryan entered, had concluded the devotions he had been reading for her, and relinquished to him the chair he had occupied.  On approaching, he was at once struck by the awful change for the worse, which so very brief a period had impressed upon her features.  On leaving home that morning she appeared to be comparatively strong, and not further diminished in flesh than a short uneasy ailment might naturally occasion.  But now her face, pallid and absolutely emaciated, had shrunk into half its size, and was, beyond all possibility of hope or doubt, stamped with the unequivocal impress of death.

Bryan, in a state which it is impossible to describe and very difficult to conceive, took her hand, and after a short glance at her features, now so full of ghastliness and the debility which had struck her down, he stooped, and, kissing her lips, burst out into wild and irrepressible sorrow.

“Bryan, dear,” she said, after a pause, and when his grief had somewhat subsided, “why will you give way to this?  Sure it was on you I placed my dependence—­I hoped that, instead of settin’ the rest an example for weakness, you’d set them one that they might and ought to follow—­I sent for you, Bryan, to make it my request that, if it’s the will of God to take me from among you, you might support an’ console the others, an’ especially your poor father; for I needn’t tell you that along wid the pain I’m bearin’, my heart is sore and full o sorrow for what I know he’ll suffer when I’m gone.  May the Lord pity and give him strength!—­for I can say on my dyin’ bed that, from the first day I ever seen his face until now, he never gave me a harsh word or an unkind look, an’ that you all know.”

“Oh how could he, mother dear? how could any one give you that?  Who was it that ever knew you could trate you with anything but respect and affection?”

“I hope I always struv to do my duty, Bryan, towards God an’ my childre’, and my fellow-creatures; an’ for that raison I’m not frightened at death.  An’, Bryan, listen to the words of your dyin’ mother—­”

“Oh, don’t say that yet, mother,” replied her son, sobbing; “don’t say so yet; who knows but God will spare your life, an’ that you may be many years with us still; they’re all alarmed too much, I hope; but it’s no wondher we should, mother dear, when there’s any appearance at all of danger about you.”

“Well, whether or not, Bryan, the advice I’m goin’ to give you is never out o’ saison.  Live always with the fear of God in your heart; do nothing that you think will displease Him; love your fellow-creatures—­serve them and relieve their wants an’ distresses as far as you’re able; be like your own father—­kind and good to all about you, not neglectin’ your religious duties.  Do this, Bryan, an’ then when the hour o’ death comes, you’ll feel a comfort an’ happiness in your heart that neither the world nor anything in it can give you.  You’ll feel the peace of God there, an’ you will die happy—­happy.”