t tried to be of comfort, she went
into the other room, to take her place by the bedside, while the worn
mother snatched a little rest, if not sleep, on the lounge near by. So
the night crept slowly by, while anxious hearts and sleepless eyes kept
sad vigil. In the first grey dawn of morning, Olive came; but when
daylight fairly blushed into rosy sunshine, Ernestine awoke from a long
sleep, clear-eyed, feverless, and rational, and recognized them all with
a quiet, peaceful smile.

"You home in the middle of the week?" she said to Olive, with a little
wondering surprise.

Dr. Barnett sent one swift, wordless glance of warning, and Olive caught
it.

"Yes, I was not very busy this week and thought I would come home last
night," she said, warmly pressing the almost transparent fingers lying
on the coverlid, adding brightly: "How well you look this morning!"

"I feel better," answered Ernestine, slowly. "So strangely better; all
rested and in no pain. Where is mama?"

"Here, darling."

"I--I feel so much better, mama," lifting the feeble hand, with a look
of pleasure in her wan face. "It seems as if I was lying on the softest
feathers, and all well again. Everything is so very easy, and I haven't
any pain."

"You are much better, dear, and we are very glad;" but Mrs. Dering bent
her head as she spoke, that no one might see the tremble of her lips,
for well she knew, without any word or glance at her son-in-law's face,
that the sufferer was passing into the sunlight of God's rest and love,
and that the passing away of pain was because His hand had already
touched her.

But to the girls it seemed different. To them, the clear, bright eyes,
the quiet, easy breathing, and restful feeling, meant better for life,
and they had a joyful jubilant time over it down stairs. They gathered
the loveliest flowers in bloom, and took them up stairs, and Ernestine
smiled brightly and even held them for a few moments in her weak hands,
keeping a pure, pale, creamy bud, when they put the rest in water.

During the day Dr. Barnett brought some mail from the office, among
which was a letter from Ralph for Kat, and a strange one from New York
for Kittie, which proved to be from Mr. Murray.

"How funny!" she said, with a pleased smile.

"What is he writing to you for?" inquired Kat, sharing the general
interest and curiosity to such an extent that she forgot her own letter.
"Is Pansy sick?"

"No; he only says how she is, and how she