's thought, replied,

"'I will go with you, my child.'

"In a few moments we were on our way. As we approached Mrs. Sinclair's
cottage, we perceived lights hurrying from one room to another.
Shuddering with dread, I drew closer to my father. He softly opened the
gate, and silently we passed through it.

"The doctor, who was just leaving the door, seemed greatly surprised to
meet us there at that hour. Words cannot describe my feelings, when in
answer to my father's inquiries, he told us that Amy was sick with brain
fever.

"'Her mother tells me,' he continued, 'that she has not been well for
several days, but that she was unwilling to remain from school. She came
home yesterday afternoon, it seems, very unlike herself. She took no
supper, but sat at the table silently, as if stupefied with grief.

"'Her mother tried every way to find out the cause of her sorrow; but in
vain. She went to bed with the same heart-broken appearance, and in less
than an hour, I was summoned. In her delirium she has been calling upon
her dear Ruth, beseeching you with the most mournful earnestness to pity
and to save her.'

"Bessie, may you never know how his words pierced my heart!

"My earnest plea to see Amy just one minute, prevailed with her widowed
mother. Kindly taking my hand--the murderer's--she led me to the sick
chamber. As I looked on the sweet sufferer, all hope deserted me. The
shadows of death were already on her forehead and her large blue eyes.

"Kneeling by her bed, in whispered words my heart pleaded, oh, so
earnestly, for forgiveness. But, when I looked entreatingly toward her,
in her delirious gaze there was no recognition. No, Bessie, I was never
to be comforted by the assurance of her pardon.

"When I next saw Amy, she was asleep. The bright flush had faded from
her cheek, whose marble paleness was shaded by her long eyelashes.
Delirium had ceased, and the aching heart was still. That small, white
hand, which had been held out tremblingly, to receive the blows of the
harsh ferule, now lay lovingly folded within the other. Never again
would tears flow from those gentle eyes, nor that bosom heave with
sorrow. That sleep was the sleep of death!

"My grief was wilder, if not deeper, than that mother's of whose lost
treasure I had robbed her. She forgave me; but I could not forgive
myself. What a long, long winter followed. My sufferings threw me into a
fever, and in my delirium I called continually upon Amy.

"