once, and but once,
to all, and knew that his life was numbered by hours, if not, indeed, by
minutes.

"Bessie," the sick man said, as she bent over him "has he come? I heard
some one speaking to you."

"Neil has not come; it is not time. It is Mr. Jerrold who is here. He
was with us last Christmas, you remember."

"Yes," Mr. McPherson replied, "the American; I remember. I liked him
very much. I wish it were he rather than Neil."

Grey looked curiously at Bessie, who knew what her father meant and that
his mind was wandering. After a few moments, during which Archie
appeared to be sleeping, he started suddenly and seemed to listen
intently. Then he said:

"The birds have stopped singing, but I hear other music; the songs of
the redeemed, and my mother is there by the gate waiting for me, just as
I shall wait one day for you, my child. Give me your hand, Bessie, I
want to feel that you are with me to the last."

She put her hand in his, and Grey noticed with a pang how small and thin
it was and brown, too, with toil. Some such thought must have been in
Archie's mind, for, pressing the fingers to his lips, he continued:

"Poor little tired hands, which have done so much for me. May they have
rest by and by. Oh, Bessie, darling, God bless you, the dearest,
sweetest daughter a man ever had. Be kind to her, young man. I leave her
in your charge; there is no one else to care for her. Good-by; God bless
you both."

He did not speak after that, though he lingered for some hours, his
breath growing fainter, and fainter until, just as the summer morning
was stealing into the room, old Anthony, who, with his wife, had been
watching by him, said, in a whisper:

"God help us; the master is dead!"

Bessie uttered no sound, but over her face there crept such a pallor and
look of woe that Grey involuntarily passed his arm around her and said:

"Let me take you into the air."

She did not resist him, but suffered him to lead her into the garden,
which was sweet with the perfume of roses and cool with the fresh
morning dew, and where the birds were singing in the old yew trees as
blithely and merrily as if no young heart were breaking in their midst.
In a large rustic-chair, where Archie had often sat, Grey made Bessie
sit down, and when he saw her shiver as if with cold, he left her a
moment while he went to the house for a shawl and a glass of wine, and
some eau-de-cologne, which he brought to her himself. Wrapping the