effort, and quite
distinctly.

"I'm going pretty soon, Miss Thorn, and I wanted to see you. You've been
so good to us--God will bless you for it. When I am gone, don't forget
poor mother. Please don't, Miss Thorn! She will be sad. I'm the only one
that remembered the other days, and we used sometimes to talk of them
and pray that they might come back. Maybe God will send them back some
day--but I will not be here. I'm not afraid to die. Christ died for the
drunkard's child--I'm sure he did. I'm so glad to go. In my Father's
house are many mansions--many mansions--one for us."

She closed her eyes as she repeated the words softly.

"When I am gone, do not feel sad, mother--not too sad," she continued in
a moment. "Think that I have only gone to sleep to wake up where there
is no more sorrow. I'll be waiting in our mansion, mother, and there we
will be happy, for the Book says he will not be there who puts the
bottle to his neighbor's lips."

She stopped to rest. The room was very quiet.

"When my father comes," a look of intense longing came into her sunken
eyes, and for a moment she struggled to force back the great sob of
sorrow that seemed choking her, "tell him 'goodby' for Maggie. Perhaps
he will be sorry--not like he once would have been--just a little. Don't
let the children forget me. Dear children! How I wish I could take them
all to the mansion. And Cora, poor Cora----"

The last tears that ever shone in Maggie's eyes filled them now.

"God knows about Cora," said Jean, tenderly, while the mother wept in
silence.

The dying girl lay quite exhausted, and, while she rested, her eyes
wandered from one to the other of the few around the bed and rested
lovingly on her mother's face. Her minutes were numbered. Mortality was
ebbing away. When she spoke again it was with more of an effort, pausing
now and then for breath.

"Stoop over, mother; let me put--my arms around--your dear, kind neck.
Put your face down--so I can put my cheek--against yours--as I did when
we were happy. I'm going back--to it. I smell the roses. I hear the
pigeons--on the roof. Lift me--mother--gently. I am--tired.
Sing--my--good night--song--I'll--go--to--sleep."

Mrs. Crowley drew the dying girl's head close to her heart and tried to
sing; but her voice failed. Then, in the presence of the death angel,
Jean sang for the girl's long sleeping.

Suddenly a clear, happy, childish voice rang out on the
stillness--"Papa's coming!"

I