have done; bade one frightened maid send for her mistress; another for Dr. Matthews; then begged Mrs. Giles, instead of standing scared and terrified, and paralysed with consternation and grief, to collect her senses and remember what had best be done till the doctor came.

"It is dying, it is dying!" repeated the nurse; her teeth chattering with terror and pity, “Oh, my lamb, my lamb!" as the poor innocent child writhed and struggled with supernatural strength in its agony.

For an hour and more this scene went on. Let those who have witnessed the sufferings of a helpless babe picture it; let those who know it not be thankful that such an hour has been spared them.

First came Dr. Matthews. The paroxysms and struggles were just ceasing, not from the effects of Giles' remedies, but from the exhaustion of one too young and slight to contend longer with death. The little limbs so lately contorted, and struggling with such violence in their agony that Barbara could scarcely keep the baby in her arms, were stiffening now into a sleep that should know no waking till the little Christian who had been called to follow her SAVIOUR, even through the footsteps of His suffering, should have followed them also through the tomb and be awakened to endless rest and bliss.

Dr. Matthews could do nothing: nothing but give Barbara and the faithful nurse the comfort of knowing all they had done had been for the best; he went to patients he might still aid. He had just left the house when there was a fleet step upon the stairs, and Henrietta entered.

She stood in the doorway, looked round one moment, then darted forward. "Give it me," she cried wildly.

She laid her hands upon her babe; terror had made them icy cold. It may be the chill of her touch roused the child now sinking so peacefully into death. Little Ida opened her eyes.

"My sweet knows me,” cried the mother.

But with its little remaining strength the babe turned from her and seemed to cling to Barbara.

Barbara could never forget the expression that shot over her sister's face. Remorse, despair, anger, jealousy, all compressed into one wild look.

66

Sit down, Hetty. Let me lay her on your lap. Nurse, warm that shawl, and lay it over your mistress's knees."

"Ay, do," said Henrietta, in a hollow ringing voice, "I will have it."

Giles obeyed. Barbara rose softly, with as little change of position as possible. Even that slight motion seemed agony.

The mother conquered. "Don't try again, Barbara, keep her.”

"It will be better, I'm afraid."

"It must be;” and Henrietta turned her chair so as to face her child, set her feet upon the rail and sat crouching with her elbows upon her knees, her face between her hands watching with fixed unflinching gaze every faint struggle, each of those parting gasps for breath.

Barbara felt terribly afraid for her sister. "Hetty, dear, do you think it is well for you ?"

“You have left me nothing else to do."

The end of this life came at last. The last struggle, the last touch of pain for ever. Blessed thought! At six months old this babe had into rest.

won her entrance

For some minutes Barbara sat on as if it had been still a living burden she held within her arms. She was roused by Henrietta.

"Now," she said, "she is mine.”

The mother was standing close beside her; she took · up her child gently, and was returning to her seat.

Barbara passed her hand over her forehead to collect . her thoughts. "Hetty, dear," she said, staying her by laying her hand upon her arm, "let us lay our

darling in her cradle, and then thank GOD her pain is-over-and-and-."

Barbara broke down; but Henrietta was tearless.

My darling now," she answered, "no one can take her from me now. No one can win her love away from me. Hark; there is George."

She flew down the stairs. Barbara followed her. Mr. Cradock who, only on leaving the dining-room had heard of his wife's recall, had gone to her bedroom thinking to find her there. As he turned round to seek her elsewhere, she entered; her shoulders bare, her lace scarf hanging down her back, her cheek on fire, her eye wild and fixed, their child within her cold rigid arms.

"You want me ?"

Only to know how baby was. But you should not have brought it down in the cold," and he even drew the scarf over the babe.

"Hush, hush!" said Henrietta, softly, "it is mine now, all mine. Don't touch it.”

She moved on to the easy chair which her maid had placed by the fireside in readiness for her mistress's return, and then resumed her old position as nearly as might be, her feet upon the fender, her eyes still fixed upon what had contained the soul of Ida Cradock.

Mr. Cradock looked to his sister-in-law for explanation.

"Little Ida is dead," said Barbara, bewildered herself.

"Dead!"

"Yes; only a few minutes ago."

"And she has it ?"

"She died in my arms; she wishes to have it. We must indulge her for a time."

"I cannot. Impossible! How shocking! Did the poor little thing suffer much ?"

"Very, very much,- -as much as you or I could do: and we could not help her, could"—but Barbara's voice failed her.

"Did she see it ?"

"Not all, not the worst, only the last faint struggles."

Mr. Cradock said, "Thank you ;" took her hand and pressed it. How inexpressibly this first token of really brotherly feeling gratified Barbara she could not yet know herself.

Then he went to his wife.

"My love!"

"Yes."

"You must let Giles take the child; and let Barbara put you to bed."

"Not yet, George."

66

Yes, my love, now; you must not stay up in the cold."

"I am not cold. I must stay. Don't let any one stay up for me. Not you of all people.'

'I, most of all."

Henrietta took no notice; but sat on with that fixed gaze, a bright red spot on each cheek, her face otherwise as white as that white dress. Her face terribly lovely, her eyes terribly bright.

Mr. Cradock turned to Barbara for help.

"Leave her a little, I think."

For ten minutes the brother and sister-in-law stood nearly as motionless as Henrietta and her dead babe. Then Mr. Cradock went out, called in the weeping Giles and made her follow him up to her mistress.

"Now, Henrietta," he said authoritatively, and yet a strange tenderness in his tone, "Giles is waiting."

"One minute more," she begged so piteously that in sight of her sister-in-law, nurse and all, Mr. Cradock bent down and kissed her from his heart.

"Not one minute more, my dear. It is quite time." His quiet decision told on her at once. Henrietta

was laying the child in its nurse's arms, then stopped. 66 No; ; you, Barbara.”

Barbara came forward; sorry to grieve Mrs. Giles ;

but taking this preference as a token of the cessation of all jealousy, as the dearest office that Henrietta could bestow upon her.

She took the precious burden; yes, still precious, for that worn feeble body was but to be sown in corruption to be raised in far greater beauty and glory than human body (save One) has ever yet known, and carrying it gently and reverently up stairs laid it in its cradle.

She went down stairs again; waiting on the landing for the chance of being wanted again. She stood beyond the reach of words, but not of all sound, and none could have been so welcome as that of the wild sobs and tears now coming from her sister's room. She waited so long in vain, that at last, even at that moment, she grew conscious that it would be disagreeable to be found there if not wanted. She turned to go up stairs; the first step creaked in the dead stillness which was now reigning through the house. "Barbara." It was Mr. Cradock's voice.

She turned back and knocked.

"Come in."

She entered to find Henrietta and her husband standing before the fire. She with her arm through his, her fingers tight round the hand which he was now seeking to disengage.

"I said I was sure you would be so good as to be my wife's maid to-night," he said, with a return of his usual somewhat chilling courtesy.

"Oh! yes indeed."

Henrietta turned to her with a smile of pretty ready gratitude upon her swollen features, features tremulous now from the conflict of joy and sorrow.

66

George, don't be long. We shall be so quick." "I should hope so, my love," and he went.

"Barbara; he has forgiven me all-all. And now please make haste, I am so tired, and I must be up in time to-morrow."

Barbara did not contradict her, but unfastened her