In order to satisfy the child, her mother left the room.  To her surprise, she met the eyes of her husband as she entered the chamber where he lay.  He looked at her calmly.

“What does Mary want with me?” he asked.

“She wishes to see you.  She’s called you so many times.  Shall I bring her in here?”

“No.  I’ll get up and dress myself.”

“I wouldn’t do that.  You’ve been sick.”

“Father! father!” The clear, earnest voice of Mary was heard calling.

“I’m coming, dear,” answered Morgan.

“Come quick, father, won’t you?”

“Yes, love.”  And Morgan got up and dressed himself—­but with unsteady hands, and every sign of nervous prostration.  In a little while, with the assistance of his wife, he was ready, and supported by her, came tottering into the room where Mary was lying.

“Oh, father!”—­What a light broke over her countenance.—­“I’ve been waiting for you so long.  I thought you were never going to wake up.  Kiss me, father.”

“What can I do for you, Mary?” asked Morgan, tenderly, as he laid his face down upon the pillow beside her.

“Nothing, father.  I don’t wish for anything.  I only wanted to see you.”

“I’m here now, love.”

“Dear father!” How earnestly, yet tenderly she spoke, laying her small hand upon his face.  “You’ve always been good to me, father.”

“Oh, no.  I’ve never been good to anybody,” sobbed the weak, broken-spirited man, as he raised himself from the pillow.

How deeply touched was Mrs. Slade, as she sat, the silent witness of this scene!

“You haven’t been good to yourself, father—­but you’ve always been good to us.”

“Don’t, Mary! don’t say anything about that,” interrupted Morgan.  “Say that I’ve been very bad—­very wicked.  Oh, Mary, dear!  I only wish that I was as good as you are; I’d like to die, then, and go right away from this evil world.  I wish there was no liquor to drink—­no taverns—­no bar-rooms.  Oh, dear!  Oh, dear!  I wish I was dead.”

And the weak, trembling, half-palsied man laid his face again upon the pillow beside his child, and sobbed aloud.

What an oppressive silence reigned for a time through the room!

“Father.”  The stillness was broken by Mary.  Her voice was clear and even.  “Father, I want to tell you something.”

“What is it, Mary?”

“There’ll be nobody to go for you, father.”  The child’s lips now quivered, and tears filled into her eyes.

“Don’t talk about that, Mary.  I’m not going out in the evening any more until you get well.  Don’t you remember I promised?”

“But, father”—­She hesitated.

“What, dear?”

“I’m going away to leave you and mother.”

“Oh, no—­no—­no, Mary!  Don’t say that.”—­The poor man’s voice was broken.—­“Don’t say that!  We can’t let you go, dear.”

“God has called me.”  The child’s voice had a solemn tone, and her eyes turned reverently upward.