And now Morgan and his wife are alone with their sick child.  Higher the fever rises, and partial delirium seizes upon her over-excited brain.  She talks for a time almost incessantly.  All her trouble is about her father; and she is constantly referring to his promise not to go out in the evening until she gets well.  How tenderly and touchingly she appeals to him; now looking up into his face in partial recognition; and now calling anxiously after him, as if he had left her and was going away.

“You’ll not forget your promise, will you, father?” she says, speaking so calmly, that he thinks her mind has ceased to wander.

“No, dear; I will not forget it,” he answers, smoothing her hair gently with his hand.

“You’ll not go out in the evening again, until I get well?”

“No, dear.”

“Father!”

“What, love?”

“Stoop down closer; I don’t want mother to hear; it will make her feel so bad.”

The father bends his ear close to the lips of Mary.  How he starts and shudders!  What has she said?—­only these brief words: 

“I shall not get well, father; I’m going to die.”

The groans, impossible to repress, that issued through the lips of Joe Morgan, startled the ears of his wife, and she came quickly to the bedside.

“What is it?  What is the matter, Joe?” she inquired, with a look of anxiety.

“Hush, father.  Don’t tell her.  I only said it to you.”  And Mary put a finger on her lips, and looked mysterious.  “There, mother—­ you go away; you’ve got trouble enough, any how.  Don’t tell her, father.”

But the words, which came to him like a prophecy, awoke such pangs of fear and remorse in the heart of Joe Morgan, that it was impossible for him to repress the signs of pain.  For some moments he gazed at his wife—­then stooping forward, suddenly, he buried his face in the bed-clothes, and sobbed bitterly.

A suggestion of the truth now flashed through the mind of Mrs. Morgan, sending a thrill of pain along every nerve.  Ere she had time to recover herself, the low, sweet voice of Mary broke upon the hushed air of the room, and she sung: 

    “Jesus can make a dying bed
      Feel soft as downy pillows are,
    While on His breast I lean my head,
      And breathe my life out, sweetly, there.”

It was impossible for Mrs. Morgan longer to repress her feelings.  As the softly breathed strain died away, her sobs broke forth, and for a time she wept violently.

“There,” said the child,—­“I didn’t mean to tell you.  I only told father, because—­because he promised not to go to the tavern any more until I got well; and I’m not going to get well.  So, you see, mother, he’ll never go again—­never—­never—­never.  Oh, dear! how my head pains.  Mr. Slade threw it so hard.  But it didn’t strike father; and I’m so glad.  How it would have hurt him—­poor father!  But he’ll never go there any more; and that will be so good, won’t it, mother?”