But the Reverend Doctor did come and sit by her, and spoke such soothing words to her, words of such peace and consolation, that from that hour she was tranquil as never before.  All true hearts are alike in the hour of need; the Catholic has a reserved fund of faith for his fellow-creature’s trying moment, and the Calvinist reveals those springs of human brotherhood and charity in his soul which are only covered over by the iron tables inscribed with the harder dogmas of his creed.  It was enough that the Reverend Doctor knew all Elsie’s history.  He could not judge her by any formula, like those which have been moulded by past ages out of their ignorance.  He did not talk with her as if she were an outside sinner worse than himself.  He found a bruised and languishing soul, and bound up its wounds.  A blessed office,—­one which is confined to no sect or creed, but which good men in all times, under various names and with varying ministries, to suit the need of each age, of each race, of each individual soul, have come forward to discharge for their suffering fellow-creatures.

After this there was little change in Elsie, except that her heart beat more feebly every day,—­so that the old Doctor himself, with all his experience, could see nothing to account for the gradual failing of the powers of life, and yet could find no remedy which seemed to arrest its progress in the smallest degree.

“Be very careful,” he said, “that she is not allowed to make any muscular exertion.  Any such effort, when a person is so enfeebled, may stop the heart in a moment; and if it stops, it will never move again.”

Helen enforced this rule with the greatest care.  Elsie was hardly allowed to move her hand or to speak above a whisper.  It seemed to be mainly the question now, whether this trembling flame of life would be blown out by some light breath of air, or whether it could be so nursed and sheltered by the hollow of these watchful hands that it would have a chance to kindle to its natural brightness.

—­Her father came in to sit with her in the evening.  He had never talked so freely with her as during the hour he had passed at her bedside, telling her little circumstances of her mother’s life, living over with her all that was pleasant in the past, and trying to encourage her with some cheerful gleams of hope for the future.  A faint smile played over her face, but she did not answer his encouraging suggestions.  The hour came for him to leave her with those who watched by her.

“Good-night, my dear child,” he said, and stooping down, kissed her cheek.

Elsie rose by a sudden effort, threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and said, “Good-night, my dear father!”

The suddenness of her movement had taken him by surprise, or he would have checked so dangerous an effort.  It was too late now.  Her arms slid away from him like lifeless weights,—­her head fell back upon her pillow,—­along sigh breathed through her lips.