ll pain here, near my heart. I
cannot breathe. It is so strange--so strange!"

Quickly the daughter rose, and groped through the faint dawn for a
light: she was long accustomed to all offices of tender care by night
and by day. This sudden illness gave her little alarm; her mother had so
many slight ailments. But, nevertheless, she roused the household, and
applied all the simple remedies which she so well knew how to use.

But there must come a time when all physicians' arts fail: it was coming
now. Mrs. Rothesay's illness increased, and the daylight broke upon
a chamber where more than one anxious face bent over the poor blind
sufferer who suffered so meekly. She did not speak much: she only
held closely to Olive's dress, sorrowfully murmuring now and then, "My
child--my child!" Once or twice she eagerly besought those around her
to try all means for her restoration, and seemed anxiously to expect the
coming of the physician. "For Olive's sake--for Olive's sake!" was all
the reason she gave.

And suddenly it entered into Olive's mind that her mother felt herself
about to die.

Her mother about to die! She paused a moment, and then flung the horror
from her as a thing utterly impossible. So many illnesses as Mrs.
Rothesay had passed through---so many times as her daughter had clasped
her close, and dared Death to come nigh one who was shielded by so much
love! It could not be--there was no cause for dread. Yet Olive waited
restlessly during the morning, which seemed of frightful length. She
busied herself about the room, talking constantly to her mother; and
by degrees, when the physician still delayed, her voice took a quick,
sharp, anxious tone.

"Hush, love, hush!" was the soft reproof. "Be content, Olive; he will
come in time. I shall recover, if it so please God."

"Of course--of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!"--she
dared not trust herself to say _darling_. She spoke even less
caressingly than usual, lest her mother might think there was any dread
upon her mind. But gradually, when she heard the strange patience of
Mrs. Rothesay's voice, and saw the changes in the beloved face,
she began to tremble. Once her wild glance darted upward in almost
threatening despair. "God! Thou wilt not--Thou canst not--do this!" And
when, at last, she heard the ringing of hoofs, and saw the physician's
horse at the gate, she could not stay to speak with him, but fled out of
the room.

She composed herself i