in the gift of God. And
just because it is so, we must not snatch at it before our time; it
would be a sin to kill ourselves, since that would be to escape from
the tasks set us. Many pleasures would seem to be innocent, but even
these it is better to renounce, since for that purpose does every
pleasure exist. I speak of the pleasures of the world. One joy there is
which we may and must pursue, the joy of sacrifice. The more the body
suffers, the greater should be the delight of the soul; and the only
moment of perfect happiness should be that when the world grows dark
around us, and we feel the hand of death upon our hearts."

She was silent, and both sat in the cold room without word or motion.

CHAPTER V

POSSIBILITIES

Christmas passed, and the beginning of the New Year drew nigh. And, one
morning, as Mr. Woodstock was glancing up and down the pages of a
ledger, a telegram was delivered to him. It was from a hospital in the
north-west of London. "Your daughter is dying, and wishes to see you.
Please come at once."

Lotty's ailment had declared itself as pneumonia. She was frequently
delirious, and the substance of her talk at such times led the
attendant Sister to ask her, when reason returned, whether she did not
wish any relative to be sent for. Lotty was frightened, but, as long as
she was told that there was still hope of recovery, declined to mention
any name. The stubborn independence which had supported her through
these long years asserted itself again, as a reaction after her
fruitless appeal; at moments she felt that she could die with her lips
closed, and let what might happen to her child. But when she at length
read upon the faces of those about her that her fate hung in the
balance, and when she saw the face of little Ida, come there she knew
not how, looking upon her from the bedside, then her purpose yielded,
and in a whisper she told her father's address, and begged that he
might be apprised of her state.

Abraham Woodstock arrived at the hospital, but to no purpose. Lotty had
lost her consciousness. He waited for some hours; there was no return
of sensibility. When it had been long dark, and he had withdrawn from
the ward for a little, he was all at once hastily summoned back. He
stood by the bedside, his hands behind his back, his face set in a hard
gaze upon the pale features on the pillow. Opposite to him stood the
medical man, and a screen placed around the bed shut them off fro