p breathing it was plain that he slept soundly. And Mary, too,
was sleeping, her face now laid against her father's, and her arms
still about his neck. The sight touched even the doctor's heart and
moistened his eyes. For nearly half an hour he remained; and then, as
Morgan continued to sleep, he left medicine to be given immediately,
and went home, promising to call early in the morning.

It is now past midnight, and we leave the lonely, sad-hearted watcher
with her sick ones.

I was sitting, with a newspaper in my hand--not reading, but musing--at
the "Sickle and Sheaf," late in the evening marked by the incidents
just detailed.

"Where's your mother?" I heard Simon Slade inquire. He had just entered
an adjoining room.

"She's gone out somewhere," was answered by his daughter Flora.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"How long has she been away?"

"More than an hour."

"And you don't know where she went to?"

"No, sir."

Nothing more was said, but I heard the landlord's heavy feet moving
backward and forward across the room for some minutes.

"Why, Ann! where have you been?" The door of the next room had opened
and shut.

"Where I wish you had been with me," was answered in a very firm voice.

"Where?"

"To Joe Morgan's."

"Humph!" Only this ejaculation met my ears. But something was said in a
low voice, to which Mrs. Slade replied with some warmth:

"If you don't have his child's blood clinging for life to your
garments, you may be thankful."

"What do you mean?" he asked, quickly.

"All that my words indicate. Little Mary is very ill!"

"Well, what of it?"

"Much. The doctor thinks her in great danger. The cut on her head has
thrown her into a violent fever, and she is delirious. Oh, Simon! if
you had heard what I heard to-night."

"What?" was asked in a growling tone.

"She is out of her mind, as I said, and talks a great deal. She talked
about you."

"Of me! Well, what had she to say?"

"She said--so pitifully--'I wish Mr. Slade wouldn't look so cross at
me. He never did when I went to the mill. He doesn't take me on his
knee now, and stroke my hair. Oh, dear!' Poor child! She was always so
good."

"Did she say that?" Slade seemed touched.

"Yes, and a great deal more. Once she screamed out, 'Oh, don't! don't,
Mr. Slade! don't! My head! my head!' It made my very heart ache. I can
never forget her pale, frightened face, nor her cry of fear. Simon--if
she should die!"

There was a l