“She often speaks of you,” faltered Mildred.  “Indeed she seems to be living all her old life over again.”

The doctor looked graver every day, and at last held out no hope.  Late one night they saw that the crisis was near.  Belle was almost inanimate from weakness, and Mrs. Jocelyn, Mildred, and Roger sat beside her in the large living-room, into which they had moved her bed, so that if possible she might get a little air—­air that was laden with vile, stifling odors.  At last the feeble tossings of the poor sufferer ceased, and she looked around intelligently.  Her mother kissed her, and said soothingly, “Sleep, dear, and you’ll soon be better.”

She shook her head, and continued to look as if in search of some one, and then whispered,

“Where is papa?”

“You are not strong enough to see him now,” her mother replied with pallid lips, while Mildred put her hand to her side from the intolerable pain in her heart.

Belle lay still a few moments, and they breathed low in their suspense.  Her mother kept her soothing touch upon her brow, while Mildred held her hand.  At last two great tears rolled down the poor girl’s face, and she said faintly, “I remember now.”

“Oh, Belle, darling, sleep,” murmured her mother, “and you will soon get well.”  Again she slowly shook her head.  “Dear little mother,” she whispered, “forgive naughty Belle for all her wild ways.  You were always patient with me.  Pray God to forgive me, for I’m going fast.  If He’s like you—­I won’t fear Him.”

Mrs. Jocelyn would have fallen on her child if Roger had not caught her and placed her gently on the lounge, where she lay with dry, tearless eyes and all the yearnings of the mother-heart in her wan face.  Belle’s eyes followed her wistfully, then turned to Mildred.

“Good-by, Millie darling, best of sisters.  You will have a long—­happy life—­in spite of all.”  Mildred clung to her passionately, but at Belle’s faint call for Roger she knelt at the bedside and looked with streaming eyes on the near approach of death.

“Roger,” Belle whispered, “lift me up.  I want to die on your breast—­you saved me—­you know.  Take care Millie—­mamma—­little ones.  Don’t wake them.  Now—­tell me—­some—­thing—­comforting out of—­the Bible.”

“‘God is not willing that one of His little ones should perish,’” said the young fellow brokenly, thankful that he could recall the words.

“That’s sweet—­I’m—­one of His—­littlest ones.  It’s—­getting—­very

I know—­what it-means.  Good—­by.  We’ll—­have—­good—­times—­together—­yet.”

Then came that absolute stillness which he understood too well.  He bowed his head upon the cold brow of the dead girl, and wept as only strong men weep in their first great sorrow.  Mildred almost forgot her own grief in trying to lead him away and to comfort him, but he clung convulsively to Belle’s lifeless form.  At last he broke almost frantically away.