decent room for them all and that they
must at least wait till the hot weather was
completely over before they crowded the
chamber, as they had hitherto done. And
then, when autumn came on, and the creeping
mists from the low grounds hung round the
place from sunset till after breakfast the next
day, the mother delayed sending for her
daughter, unwilling that she should lose the
look of health which she alone now, of all the
family, exhibited. Fleming and his wife and
babe prospered better than the others. The
young man's business lay on the high ground,
at the top of the embankment. He was
there all day while Mr. Woodruffe and Allan
were below, among the ditches and the late
and early fogs. Mrs. Fleming was young and
strong, full of spirit and happiness; and so
far fortified against the attacks of disease, as
a merry heart strengthens nerve and bone and
muscle, and invigorates all the vital powers.
In regard to her family, her father's hopeful
spirit seemed to have passed into her. While
he was becoming permanently discouraged,
she was always assured that everything would
come right next year. The time had arrived
for her power of hope to be tested to the
utmost. One day this autumn, she admitted
that Becky must be sent for. She did not
forget, however, to charge Allan to be cheerful,
and make the best of things, and not
frighten Becky by the way.

It was now the end of October. Some ot
the days were balmy elsewhere—the
afternoons ruddy; the leaves crisp beneath the
tread; the squirrel busy after the nuts in the
wood; the pheasants splendid among the dry
ferns in the brake, the sportsman warm and
thirsty in his exploring among the stubble.
In the evenings the dwellers in country
houses called one another out upon the grass,
to see how bright the stars were, and how
softly the moonlight slept upon the woods.
While it was thus in one place, in another,
and not far off, all was dank, dim, dreary and
unwholesome; with but little sun, and no
moon or stars; all chill, and no glow; no
stray perfumes, the last of the year, but
sickly scents coming on the steam from
below. Thus it was about Fleming's house,
this latter end of October, when he saw but
little of his wife, because she was nursing her
mother in the fever, and when he tried to
amuse himself with his young baby at meal-
times (awkward nurse as he was) to relieve
his wife of the charge for the little time he
could be at home. When the baby cried, and
when he saw his Abby look wearied, he did
wish, now and then, that Becky was at home:
but he was patient, and helpful, and as cheerful
as he could, till the day which settled the
matter. On that morning he felt strangely
weak, barely able to mount the steps to the
station. During the morning, several people
told him he looked ill; and one person did
more. The porter sent a message to the next
large Station that somebody must be sent
immediately to fill Fleming's place, in case of
his being too ill to work. Somebody came;
and before that, Fleming was in bed—
certainly down in the fever. His wife was now
wanted at home; and Becky must come to
her mother.

Though Becky asked questions all the way
home, and Allan answered them as truthfully
as he knew how, she was not prepared tor
what she found—her father aged and bent,
always in pain, more or less, and far less
furnished with plans and hopes than she had
ever known him; Moss, fretful and sickly,
and her mother unable to turn herself in her
bed. Nobody mentioned death. The surgeon
who came daily, and told Becky exactly what
to do, said nothing of anybody dying of the
fever, while Woodruffe was continually talking
of things that were to be done when his wife
got well again. It was sad, and sometimes
alarming, to hear the strange things that
Mrs. Woodruffe said in the evenings when she
was delirious; but if Abby stepped in at such
times, she did not think much of it, did not
look upon it as any sign of danger; and was
only thankful that her husband had no
delirium. His head was always clear, she said,
though he was very weak. Becky never
doubted, after this, that her mother was the
most severely ill of the two; and she was
thunderstruck when she heard one morning
the surgeon's answers to her father's
questions about Fleming. He certainly considered
it a bad case; he would not say that he could
not get through; but he must say it was
contrary to his expectation. When Becky
saw her father's face as he turned away and
went out, she believed his heart was broken.

"But I thought," said she to the surgeon,
"I thought my mother was most ill of the two."

"I don't know that," was the reply, "but she
is very ill. We are doing the best we can.—
You are, I am sure," he said, kindly; "and we
must hope on, and do our best till a change
comes. The wisest of us do not know what
changes may come. But I could not keep
your father in ignorance of what may happen
in the other house."

No appearances alarmed Abby. Because
there was no delirium, she apprehended no
danger. Even when the fatal twitchings came,
the arm twitching as it lay upon the coverlid,
she did not know it was a symptom of
anything. As she nursed her husband perfectly
well, and could not have been made more
prudent and watchful by any warning, she
had no warning. Her cheerfulness was
enouraged, for her infant's sake, as well as for
her husband's and her own. Some thought
that her husband knew his own case. A word
or two,—now a gesture, and now a look,—
persuaded the surgeon and Woodruffe that he
was aware that he was going. His small
affairs were always kept settled; he had
prorably no directions to give; and his tenderness
for his wife showed itself in his enjoying her
cheerfulness to the last. When, as soon as it