s grown so rapidly as to exhaust her strength; and
that her situation is critical. But just now she is only prostrated by
the heat of the weather, and by the excitement of her cousin's visit,
and the exertions she made. The physician says there is room for hope."

"Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray do; it's a
mercy if people haven't sensitive feelings, in this world. I am sure I
wish I didn't feel as I do; it only makes me completely wretched! I wish
I _could_ be as easy as the rest of you!"

And the "rest of them" had good reason to breathe the same prayer, for
Marie paraded her new misery as the reason and apology for all sorts
of inflictions on every one about her. Every word that was spoken by
anybody, everything that was done or was not done everywhere, was only
a new proof that she was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings,
who were unmindful of her peculiar sorrows. Poor Eva heard some of these
speeches; and nearly cried her little eyes out, in pity for her mamma,
and in sorrow that she should make her so much distress.

In a week or two, there was a great improvement of symptoms,--one of
those deceitful lulls, by which her inexorable disease so often beguiles
the anxious heart, even on the verge of the grave. Eva's step was again
in the garden,--in the balconies; she played and laughed again,--and
her father, in a transport, declared that they should soon have her
as hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone felt no
encouragement from this illusive truce. There was one other heart, too,
that felt the same certainty, and that was the little heart of Eva. What
is it that sometimes speaks in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its
earthly time is short? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, or
the soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on? Be it what it may,
it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic certainty
that Heaven was near; calm as the light of sunset, sweet as the bright
stillness of autumn, there her little heart reposed, only troubled by
sorrow for those who loved her so dearly.

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life was unfolding
before her with every brightness that love and wealth could give, had no
regret for herself in dying.

In that book which she and her simple old friend had read so much
together, she had seen and taken to her young heart the image of one who
loved the little child; and, as she gaze