“Fear not, old friend,” said Mildred.  “I do not fear.  I thank my God there is an end of it.”

“Is your mind happy, Mildred?” asked the physician.

“You shall judge yourself.  I die at peace with all men.  I repent me heartily of my sins.  I place my hope in my Redeemer.  I feel that he will not desert me.  I did never fear death, Wilford.  I can smile upon him now.”

“You will see a clergyman?”

“Yes, Wilford, an hour hence; not now.  I have sent her away, that I might hear the worst from you.  She must be recalled, and know that all is fixed, and over.  We will pray together—­dear, faithful Margaret—­sweet, patient nurse!  Heaven bless her!”

“She is to be pitied, Mildred.  To die is the common lot.  We are not all doomed to mourn the loss of our beloved ones!”

“But, Wilford, you will be good and kind to her, and console her for my loss.  You are my executor and dearest friend.  You will have regard to my dying words, and watch over her.  Be a father and a brother to her.  You will—­will you not?”

“I will,” answered the physician solemnly.

“Thank you, brother—­thank you,” replied the patient, pressing his friend’s hand warmly.  “We are brothers now, Wilford—­we were children, schoolboys together.  Do you remember the birds’-nesting—­and the apple-tree in the orchard?  Oh, the happy scenes of my boyhood are fresher in my memory to day than the occurrences of yesterday!”

“You were nearer heaven in your boyhood, Mildred, than you have been since, until this hour.  We are travelling daily further from the East, until we are summoned home again.  The light of heaven is about us at the beginning and the close of life.  We lose it in middle age, when it is hid by the world’s false and unsubstantial glare.”

“I understand something of what you say.  I never dreaded this hour.  I have relied for grace, and it has come—­but, Wilford”—­

“What would you say?”

“Margaret.”

“What of her?”

“If you could but know what she has done for me—­how, for the last two years, she has attended me—­how she has sacrificed all things for me, and for my comfort—­how she has been, against my will, my servant and my slave—­you would revere her character as I do.  Night after night has she spent at my bedside; no murmur—­no dull, complaining look—­all cheerfullness!  I have been peevish and impatient—­no return for the harsh word, and harsher look.  So young—­so beautiful—­so self devoted.  I have not deserved such love—­and now it is snatched from me, as it should be”—­

“You are excited, Mildred,” said the good doctor.  “You have said too much.  Rest now—­rest.”

“Let me see her,” answered Mildred.  “I cannot part with her an instant now.”