“Perhaps if you will sing me something low, I may go to sleep, and I want to hear your voice once more.  Sing me that song about the child and the rose-bush, that Hattie likes so much.”

“Not that! anything but that!  It is too sad, my precious little darling.”

“But I want to hear it; please, Edna.”

It was a painful task that he imposed, but his wishes ruled her; and she tried to steady her voice as she sang, in a very low, faltering tone, the beautiful, but melancholy ballad.  Tears rolled over her face as she chanted the verses; and when she concluded, he repeated very faintly: 

  “Sweetly it rests, and on dream-wings flies,
   To play with the angels in paradise!”

He nestled his lips to hers, and, after a little while, murmured: 

“Good-night, Edna!”

“Good-night, my darling!”

She gave him a stimulating potion, and arranged his head comfortably.  Ere long his heavy breathing told her that he slept, and, stealing from his side, she sat down in a large chair near the head of his bed, and watched him.

For many months he had been failing, and they had travelled from place to place, hoping against hope that each change would certainly be beneficial.

Day and night Edna had nursed him, had devoted every thought, almost every prayer to him; and now her heart seemed centred in him.  Scenery, music, painting, rare MSS., all were ignored; she lived only for that poor dependent boy, and knew not a moment of peace when separated from him.  She had ceased to study aught but his comfort and happiness, had written nothing save letters to friends; and notwithstanding her anxiety concerning the cripple, the frequent change of air had surprisingly improved her own health.  For six months she had escaped the attacks so much dreaded, and began to believe her restoration complete, though the long banished color obstinately refused to return to her face, which seemed unable to recover its rounded outline.  Still, she was very grateful for the immunity from suffering, especially as it permitted more unremitting attendance upon Felix.

She knew that his life was flickering out gently but surely; and now, as she watched the pale, pinched features, her own quivered, and she clasped her hands and wept, and stifled a groan.

She had prayed so passionately and continually that he might be spared to her; but it seemed that whenever her heart-strings wrapped themselves around an idol, a jealous God tore them loose, and snatched away the dear object, and left the heart to bleed.  If that boy died, how utterly desolate and lonely she would be; nothing left to care for and to cling to, nothing to claim as her own, and anoint with the tender love of her warm heart.