p; he took him by the
hand. Other people were about him before he had time to think. Some of
them were in tears. No, it was not Anastasia; he recollected how they
kept telling him that it was not Anastasia, and then that they wished
him to leave the house, though she was still in such imminent
danger--leave the house and go to the inn. He could not receive a new
thought suddenly. Why should he go to the inn? He was not anxious about
his little Janie; he had not seen her for two or three days, but he
could not leave the house now.

And yet he saw that he must do it. He was walking among the others to a
carriage in the yard. He believed nothing; it was only as they drove
along that he could understand the doctor's words--a change. They had
feared that there might be an internal injury; he was to remember that
they had mentioned to him some symptoms which should have made him aware
of their solicitude. All very slowly, very cautiously said, but till he
saw his child he did not believe a word of it.

The little face looked restless and troubled. Dorothea was sitting at
her side fanning her. "Dear papa's come," she said, and then the child
looked gravely satisfied, and for a long time she seemed to derive a
quiet satisfaction from gazing at him. Then, by slow degrees, she fell
into a deep sleep. He was so thankful to see it, and yet no one
comforted him with any hopeful words. And it must have been a long time,
for all the west was orange when some one woke him from an exhausted
doze, his first dream since his great misfortune.

All his children were well again. They were all present but Janie.
Anastasia was sitting on his knees, rosy and smiling. "Did she know," he
seemed to ask her, "what her poor father had done to her?" and while he
felt this peace and joy of recovering her, some one touched his arm, and
the dream was gone. He started and woke. Janie, yes, little Janie was
there. "Do you want me, my darling?" were his first words, before he had
quite dismissed the delusive comfort of that dream.

A remarkable, a perfectly indescribable change had come over the little
face, it looked so wise. "You'd better kiss me now," she said, with a
wistful, quaint composure.

"Yes, my treasure."

"I can't say my prayers to-night, papa," she presently added, "I suppose
you'll have to say them for me." And before he could believe that he
must part with her she was gone.

Little Janie, his little Janie. As he sat in the dusk tha