Lying upon a bed was a man, evidently near the time of his
departure from earth. By his side, and bending over him, was a woman
almost as pale as himself. A little girl, not above five years of age,
sat on the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on the countenance of
her father, for such was the relation borne to her by the sick man.
A lovely creature she was--beautiful even beyond the common beauty of
childhood. For a time a solemn stillness reigned through the chamber.
A few low-spoken words had passed between the parents of the child,
and then, for a brief period, all was deep, oppressive silence. This
was interrupted, at length, by the mother's unrestrained sobs, as she
laid her face upon the bosom of her husband, so soon to be taken from
her, and wept aloud.
No word of remonstrance or comfort came from the sick man's lips. He
only drew his arm about the weeper's neck, and held her closer to his
heart.
The troubled waters soon ran clear: there was calmness in their
depths.
"It is but for a little while, Fanny," said he, in a feeble yet steady
voice; "only for a little while."
"I know; I feel that here," was replied, as a thin, white hand was
laid against the speaker's bosom. "And I could patiently await my
time, but"----
Her eyes glanced yearningly toward the child, who sat gazing upon her
parents, with an instinct of approaching evil at her heart.
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