with an unwonted degree of sadness;
while Gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which Willie dilated
upon the "joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear mother whom he
so longed to see again," and then turned her gaze upon the wasted form
and cheek of that mother, felt a chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy's first
fears were confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated by the
anxiety which attended her father's sickness and death, Mrs. Sullivan
was rapidly passing away.

Whether she was herself aware of this Gertrude had not yet been able to
determine. She had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated a
conviction of her approaching end; and Gertrude was almost inclined to
believe that she was deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery.
All doubt of this was soon removed; for after remaining a short time
engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs. Sullivan opened her
eyes, fixed them upon the young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct
voice--"Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again." Gertrude made no
reply.

"I wish to write and tell him so myself, or, rather, if you will write
for me, I should like to tell you what to say; and I feel that no time
is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long have strength
enough to do it. It will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know
when all is over; but you have had too many sad duties already, and it
will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. Will
you commence a letter to-day?"

"Certainly, auntie, if you think it best."

"I do, Gerty. What you wrote by the last mail was my father's sickness
and death; and there was nothing mentioned likely to alarm him on my
account, was there?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then it is time he should be forewarned, poor boy! I do not need Dr.
Jeremy to tell me that I am dying."

"Did he tell you so?" asked Gertrude, as she went to her desk, and began
to arrange her writing materials.

"No, Gerty! he was too prudent for that; but I told _him_ and he did not
contradict me. You have known it some time, have you not?" inquired she,
gazing earnestly in the face of Gertrude.

"Some weeks," replied Gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a kiss upon the
pale brow of the sufferer.

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Why should I, dear auntie?" said Gertrude. "I knew the Lord could never
call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning."

"Feebly, it burns feebly!" said s