ing,
when, looking up wistfully, he said to her,

"Mother, I don't _think_ I shall ever get better."

And the sad days and sadder nights went slowly on. Now and then there
seemed a little sparkle of hope. Once Ted began to talk about meeting
his dear Percy at the station, when he came home for the holidays, which
made those about him hope he was feeling stronger; then, at another
time, he said what a pity it would be not to be well by Christmas and by
his birthday, and he smiled when his father told him, as was the case,
that the doctor quite hoped he would be well by then; and one day when
the post brought him his great wish--a beautiful book of travels--his
face lighted up with pleasure, and, though not able to read it, the
welcome present lay on his bed where he could see it and smile to
himself to think it was there. There were happy times through his
illness, weak and wearied though he grew, and now and then he seemed
so bright that it was difficult, for a little, not to think him much
better. But the illness which Ted had is a very deceitful one--it
invisibly saps away the strength even when the worst sharp suffering is
over--and slowly, slowly it came to be seen that his own feeling had
been true; our Ted was not to get better.

One day a travelling merchant brought to the door a case of pretty
Parian ornaments. White and pure they shone in the winter sunshine, and
some one had the thought that "one of these might please Ted." So they
were brought up for him to choose from. Poor Cissy! she would fain have
carried them in; but alas! for fear of infection, she could not be
allowed to see her brother, which made of these last days a double
sorrow to her, though she did not know how ill he was. Ted touched the
pretty things with his little thin hand.

"They are very pretty," he said. "I like this one best, please, mother."

"This one" was a snow-white cross, and his mother's heart ached with a
strange thrill as she saw his choice; but she smiled as she placed it
beside him, where it stood, ever in his sight, till his blue eyes could
see it no more.

There came a morning on which the winter sun rose with a wonderful
glory; gold and orange light seemed to fill the sky, as if in prelude
to some splendid pageant. It was Sunday morning. Ted lay asleep, as if
carved in marble, his little white face rested on the pillow, and as
his mother turned from the marvellous beauty outside to the small figure
that seemed to he