such as fell upon the grave of his first-born, for oh, his grief then was
naught compared with what he now felt for his Sunshine, his idol, his
precious Fanny. "I cannot, cannot let her die," was the cry which hourly
welled up from the depths of that fond father's aching heart. "Take all,
take everything I own, but leave me Sunshine; she mustn't, mustn't die."

Earnestly did Fanny pray that her father might be enabled better to bear
his affliction. But he turned a deaf ear alike to her and his gentle,
enduring wife, who, bowed with sorrow, yet sought to soothe her
grief-stricken husband. Sadly he would turn away saying, "It's no use
talking. I can't be pious if they take Fanny away. I can see why t'other
one died. 'Twas to bring me to my senses, and show me how bad I used her;
but Fanny, my Sunshine, what has Josh done that she should leave him too?
Oh, it's more than I can bar."

At Dr. Gordon's request a council of physicians in Frankfort was called.
As the one who came last was about to enter her room, Mr. Middleton
detained him while he said, "Save her, doctor, save her, and you shall
have all I'm worth." Impatiently he awaited the decision. It came, but
alas, it brought no hope.

Mr. William Middleton, who had recently come from New Orleans, broke the
news to his unhappy brother. Terrible was the anguish of Uncle Joshua,
when he became convinced that he must lose her. Nothing could induce him
to leave her room; and as if endowed with superhuman strength, he watched
by her constantly, only leaving her once each day to visit the quiet
grave, the bed of his other daughter, where now the long green grass was
waving, and the summer flowers were blooming, flowers which Fanny's hand
had planted and the father's tears had watered.

One night they were alone, the old man and his child.

For several hours Fanny had turned uneasily upon her pillow, but she at
last fell into a deep sleep. For a time her father sat quietly listening
to the sound of her breathing, then arising, he softly drew aside the
curtains and looked long and anxiously at her as she slept.

Suddenly lifting his hands he exclaimed, "Oh, God, save her, or help me to
bear it if she dies." It was the first prayer which for long, long years
had passed his lips, but it had a power to bring back the olden feeling,
when a happy boy, he had knelt at his mother's side, and was not ashamed
to pray. Falling on his knees, he tried to recall the words of prayer his