Mr. Bancroft had very little more to say that evening, but his state of mind did not improve.  He was dissatisfied because his income, ten years before, when his expenses were less, was not as good as it was now, and looked ahead with, a troubled feeling at the prospect of a still increasing family, and still increasing expenses, to meet which he could see no possible way.  In this unhappy mood he retired at an earlier hour than usual, but could not sleep for a long time—­his thoughts were too unquiet.  At last, however, he sunk into a deep slumber.

When again conscious, the sun was shining in at the window.  His wife had already risen.  He got up, dressed himself, and went down stairs.  Breakfast was already on the table, and his happy little household assembling.  But after all were seated, Mr. Bancroft noticed a vacant place.

“Where is Flora?” he asked.

A shade passed over the brow of his wife.

“Flora has been quite ill all night,” she replied; “I was up with her for two or three hours.”

“Indeed! what is the matter?”

Mr. Bancroft felt a sudden strange alarm take hold of his heart.

“I can’t tell,” returned the mother.  “She has a high fever, and complains of sore throat.”

“Scarlet fever?” ejaculated Mr. Bancroft, pushing aside his untasted cup of coffee and rising from the table.  “I must have the doctor here immediately.  It is raging all around us.”

The father hurried from the room, and went in great haste for the family physician, who promised to make his first call that morning at his house.

When Mr. Bancroft came home from the bank in the afternoon, he found Flora extremely ill, with every indication of the dreadful disease he named in the morning.  A couple of days reduced doubt to certainty.  It was a case of scarlatina of the worst type.  Speedily did it run its fatal course, and in less than a week from the time she was attacked, Flora was forever free from all mortal agonies.

This was a terrible blow to the father.  It broke him completely down.  The mother bore her sad bereavement with the calmness of a Christian, yet not without the keenest suffering.

But the visitation did not stop here.  Death rarely lays his withering hand upon one household flower without touching another, and causing it to droop, wither, and fall to the ground.  So it was in this case.  William, the manly, intelligent, promising boy, upon whom the father had ever looked with love and pride so evenly balanced, that the preponderance of neither became apparent, was taken with the same fatal disease and survived his sister only two weeks.

The death of Flora bowed Mr. Bancroft to the ground:  that of William completely prostrated him.  He remembered, too distinctly, how often and how recently he had murmured at the good gift of children sent him by God, and now he trembled lest all were to be taken from him, as one unworthy of the high benefactions with which he had been blessed.  How few seemed now the number of his little ones.  There were but five left.  The house seemed desolate; he missed Flora every where, and listened, in vain, for her light step and voice of music.  William was never out of his thoughts.