mother had taught him, but one petition alone came from his heart in that
dark, midnight hour. "Oh, don't let Fanny die, don't let her die, for who
will comfort old Joshua when she is gone."

"The Saviour; He who once wept at the grave of Lazarus will be more to you
than I ever was, or ever can be," said Fanny.

In her sleep she dreamed that her father prayed. She awoke and found it
true. "Come nearer to me, father," said she. He did so, and then among his
thick gray locks she laid her thin white hand and prayed.

It was a beautiful sight, and methinks the angels hovered round as that
young disciple, apparently so near the portals of heaven, sought to lead
her weeping father to the same glad world. Her words were soothing, and
o'er his darkened mind a ray of light seemed feebly, faintly shining.
Before the morning dawned he had resolved that if there still was hope for
him he would find it. Many a time during the succeeding days he prayed in
secret, not that Fanny might be spared, but that he might be reconciled to
God. His prayer at length was answered, and Uncle Joshua was a changed
man. He showed it in everything, in the expression of his face and in the
words he uttered. For his Sunshine he still wept, but with a chastened
grief, for now he knew that if she died he would see her in heaven.

Where now was Dr. Lacey? Knew he not of the threatened danger? At his
father's bedside, where for many days his place had been, he had received
from Mr. William Middleton a letter announcing Fanny's illness, which,
however, was not then considered dangerous. On learning the contents of
the letter, the elder Mr. Lacey said, turning to his son, "Go, George, go;
I would not keep you from her a moment." The doctor needed no second
bidding, and the first steamer which left New Orleans bore him upon its
deck, anxious and impatient.

Fast the days rolled on, and they who watched Fanny alternately hoped and
feared, as she one day seemed better and the next worst. Of those days we
will not speak. We hasten to a night three weeks from the commencement of
her illness, when gathered in her room were anxious friends, who feared
the next day's sun would see her dead. Florence, Kate and Mrs. Miller were
there, with tearful eyes and saddened faces. Frank Cameron, too, was
there. Business, either real or fancied, had again taken him to Kentucky,
and hearing of Fanny's illness, he had hastened to her.

She had requested to be raised up, and