On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour, to the dwelling of the two sisters.  On entering the chamber, they found no one present but Ellen and Margaret.  The latter still reclined with her head on her sister’s bosom, and seemed to have fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay.  Ellen looked up on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon her cheeks.  She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast.  For nearly fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the chamber.  The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid.  At the end of this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness.  But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent consciousness.  After feeling her pulse for some time, he said—­

“It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if she becomes restless, a little wine may be given.  In the morning I will see her early,” and he made a movement to go.

“Doctor,” said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, “tell me truly—­is she not dying?”

For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl, and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful struggle.

“While there is life, there is hope,” he replied briefly.

“Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it,” she urged appealingly.  “If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it.”

“I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is,” he replied, evasively.  “As I have just said, where there is life, there is hope.”

Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy.  The two remained some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret exhibiting many signs of restlessness.  She kept rolling her head upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily.  In a few minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently.  After a little while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of Ellen quickly.

“I am here, Margaret,” replied the sister, bending over her.

“Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?” she said, looking up into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the presence of others.  “I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I waited and waited, and you didn’t come home!  You won’t go away any more—­will you, Ellen?”