“There is not much more for me in this world,” was the reply; “but I feel burdened with care about the child.  I suppose you can’t understand a mother’s feelings, young lady, and it is weak in me to give up so, but I can’t die and leave my little helpless girl alone in the world.  Oh, if I could only take her with me?”

“I see how you are situated,” said Clemence, “you need a friend to help you.  Have you no relatives to look to?”

“No one in the whole, wide world.  Little Ruth and me are alone.  You must have heard how her father died.  My poor, misguided husband!  He might have surrounded us with plenty, but evil companions dragged him on to a dreadful end.  He was an only son.  His parents died, and left him with a few hundred dollars.  I had always hired out before I was married, for I had no one to look to, as I was an orphan.  I had, however, saved quite a little sum out of my wages, and this, with what James had, gave us quite a fair start in life.  But he took to drink, and that was the last of our happiness.  I have buried five children, and this girl is the only one left.  Would that God had taken her, too.”

“How you must have suffered,” said her young listener, down whose face sympathetic tears had been streaming, during the woman’s pathetic recital.  “It cannot be that you will be left to despair in your dying hour.  Try and hope for the best, and be resigned to what may be in store for you, remembering it is His will.”

“I do try,” said the woman, meekly; “and you, will you pray for me?”

“Gladly, if you wish,” said Clemence, sinking down beside the couch.

“There, I feel stronger now,” said the invalid.  “You must surely have been sent by God to comfort me.”

Clemence’s face was radiant with a light that told whence came her pure joy.  She glided around softly, preparing a tempting supper out of the delicacies she had brought to the sick woman.  Then she drew a chair again beside her, preparatory to a night of watching.

The woman fell into an uneasy slumber, and the hours waned, as the girl kept faithful “watch and ward.”  With the early morning light came a change.

“Ruth, run for the neighbors,” said Clemence, in frightened tones.  “Your mother is worse,” and the half-dressed child fled out of the house, crying bitterly.

“Ruth, Ruth!” called the sufferer, “my poor darling.”

Clemence came to her side, “I sent her after Mrs Deane,” she said, soothingly, “she will be back in a few moments.”

“It will be too late.  I am going—­oh, Father, forgive me?  I cannot die in peace—­my little Ruth, my little, helpless, confiding daughter, child of my love, I cannot leave her.”

The great, hollow eyes fastened themselves imploringly on her face.  The young watcher felt as if the minutes were hours.  She listened for the footsteps that came not.  The woman’s breath came quick in little gasps.  She tried to speak, turned on her pillow and uttered a feeble word of anguish.  Her eyes again sought the face of the young watcher, and she strove again to syllable incoherent questions.  Clemence came nearer and bent over her, asking in earnest, agitated tones,