" said Rosamond, seizing her arm, and taking her to the pony-
carriage at the door, then explaining while driving rapidly: "He
has left off raving ever since his mother has been with him, but he
lies--not still but weak, not speaking, only moaning now and then.
His throat is so dreadful that it is hard to give him anything, and
he takes no notice of what one says, only if his mother takes the
spoon. He gets weaker, and Dr. Worth says it is only because there
is no impulse to revive him--he is just sinking because he can't be
roused. When I heard that, I thought I knew who could."

Eleonora's lips once moved, but no sound came from them, and
Rosamond urged her little pony to its best speed through the two
parks from one veiled house to another, fastened it to the garden-
door without calling any one, and led her silent companion up the
stairs.

Mrs. Poynsett felt a hand on her shoulder, and Rosamond said, "I
have brought our only hope," and Eleonora stood, looking at the
ghastly face. The yellow skin, the inflamed purple lips, the
cavernous look of cheeks and eyes, were a fearful sight, and only
the feeble incessant groping of the skeleton fingers showed life or
action.

"Put this into his hand," said Rosamond, and Lenore found the pebble
token given to her, and obeyed. At the touch, a quivering trembled
over face and form, the eyelids lifted, the eyes met hers, there was
a catching of the breath, a shudder and convulsive movement. "He is
going," cried his mother, but Anne started forward with drops of
strong stimulant, Rosamond rubbed spirit into his forehead, the
struggle lessened, the light flickered back into his brown eyes, his
fingers closed on hers. "Speak to him," said Mrs. Poynsett. "Do
you see her, Frankie dear?"

"Frank! dear Frank, here I am."

The eyes gazed with more meaning, the lips moved, but no sound came
till Anne had given another drop of the stimulant, and the terrible
pain of the swallowing was lessened. Then he looked up, and the
words were heard.

"Is it true?"

"It is, my dear boy. It is Lena."

"Here, Frank," as still the wistful gaze was unsatisfied; she laid
her hands on his, and then he almost smiled and tried to raise it to
his cheeks, but he was too weak; and she obeyed the feeble gesture,
and stroked the wasted face, while a look of content came over it,
the eyes closed, and he slept with his face against her hand, his
mother watching beside with ineffable gratitude a