Mrs. Wentworth remained silent, looking at her child as she gasped for breath.  Of what use was the money she had committed a crime to obtain?  Of what avail were her supplications to God?  It were thoughts like these that passed rapidly through her mind, as she speechlessly gazed at the fast sinking form of her child.  Ella saw her agony, and tried to soothe her mother.

“Come nearer to me, mother,” she said.  “Come near and speak to me.”  Mrs. Wentworth drew near the bedside, and bent her face to the child.

“What do you wish, darling?” she asked.

“Mother, I am dying—­I am going to Heaven,” Ella said, speaking with an effort.

A smothered sob, was the only response she met with.

“Don’t cry mother,” continued the child.  “I am going to a good place, and do not feel afraid to die.”

Shaking off her half maddened feeling, Mrs. Wentworth replied.  “Don’t speak that way, darling.  You are not going to die.  The physician will soon be here, and he will give you some thing which will get you better.”

Ella smiled faintly.  “No, mother, I cannot get better; I know I am going to die.  Last night, while sleeping, an angel told me in my dream, that I would sleep with God to-night.”

“That was only a dream, darling,” Mrs. Wentworth replied, “you will get well and live a long time.”

As she spoke the old negro returned, accompanied by a physician.  He was one of these old fashioned gentlemen, who never concern themselves with another’s business, and therefore, he did not enquire the cause of Mrs. Wentworth, and her family being in so poor a dwelling.  His business was to attend the sick, for which he expected to be paid; not that he was hard-hearted, for, to the contrary, he was a very charitable and generous man, but he expected that all persons who required his advice, should have the means of paying for the same, or go to the public hospital, where they could be attended to free of charge.  His notions were on a par with those of mankind in general, so we cannot complain of him.

Approaching Ella, he took her hand and felt the pulse which was then feebly beating.  A significant shake of the head, told Mrs. Wentworth that there was no hope for her child’s recovery.

“Doctor,” she asked, “will my daughter recover?”

“Madam,” he replied, “your child is very, very ill, in fact, I fear she has not many hours to live.”

“It cannot be,” she said.  “Do not tell me there is no hope for my child.”

“I cannot deceive you, madam,” he replied, “the child has been neglected too long for science to triumph over her disease.  When did you first call in a medical practitioner?” he added.

“Not until you were sent for,” she answered.

“Then you are much to blame, madam,” he observed bluntly.  “Had you sent for a physician three weeks ago, the life of your child would have been saved, but your criminal neglect to do so, has sacrificed her life.”