little voice that, scarcely ever ceasing, talked
to her.

Poor Gabrielle, it seemed to her such a
fearful mockery of the happiness that she
knew could never be hers any more for
ever; but, forcing back her grief upon her
own sad heart, she laughed and talked gaily
with him, showing by no sign how sorrowful
she was.

"Mother, mother!" he cried, suddenly
clapping his little wasted hands, "I see a
violet—a pure white violet, in the dark leaves
there. Oh, fetch it to me! It's the first
spring flower. The very first violet of all!
Oh, mother, dear, I love them—the little
sweet-smelling flowers."

"Your eyes are quicker than mine, Willie;
I shouldn't have seen it, it is such a little
thing. There it is, dear boy. I wish there
were more for you."

"Ah, they will soon come now. l am so
glad I have seen the first. Mother, do you
remember how I used to gather them at home,
and bring them to Papa when he was ill?
He liked them too—just as I do now."

"I remember it well, dear," Gabrielle
answered softly.

"How long ago that time seems now,"
Willie said; then after a moment's peace he
asked a little sadly, "Mother, what makes
me so different now from what I used to be?
I was so strong and well once, and could run
about the whole day long; mother, dear,
when shall I run about again?"

"You are very weak, dear child, just now.
We mustn't talk of running about for a little
time to come."

"No, not for a little time; but when do
you think, mother?" The little voice trembled
suddenly: " I feel sometimes so weak
—so weak, as if I never could get strong
again."

Hush, Gabrielle! Press back that bitter
sob into thy sorrowful heart, lest the dying
child hear it!

"Do not fear, my darling, do not fear. You
will be quite well, very soon now."

He looked into her tearful eye, as she tried
to smile on him, with a strange unchildlike
look, as if he partly guessed the meaning in
her words, but did not answer her, nor could
she speak again, just then.

"Mother, sing to me," he said, "sing one
of the old songs I used to love. I haven't
heard you sing for—oh so long!"

Pressing her hand upon her bosom, to still
her heart's unquiet beating, Gabrielle tried to
sing one of the old childish songs with which,
in days long past, she had been wont to nurse
her child asleep. The long silent voice—
silent here so many years—awoke again,
ringing through the still air with all its
former sweetness. Though fainter than it
was of old, Bertha heard it, moving through
the house; and came to the open window to
stand there and listen, smiling to herself to
think that Gabrielle could sing again, and
half weeping at some other thoughts which
the long unheard voice recalled to her.

"Oh, mother, I like that," Willie murmured
softly, as the song died away, "It's like
long ago to hear you sing."

They looked into one another's eyes, both
filling fast with tears; then Willie, with
childish sympathy, though knowing little why
she grieved, laid his arm round her neck,
trying with his feeble strength to draw her
towards him. She bent forward to kiss
him; then hid her face upon his neck that
he might not see how bitterly she wept, and
he, stroking her soft hair with his little
hand, murmured the while some gentle words
that only made her tears flow faster. So they
lay, she growing calmer presently, for a long
while.

"Now, darling, you have staid here long
enough," Gabrielle said at last, "you must let
me carry you into the house again."

"Must I go so soon, mother? See how
bright the sun is still."

"But see, too, how long and deep the
shadows are getting, Willie. No, my dear
one, you must come in now."

"Mother, dear, I am so happy today—so
happy, and so much better than I have been
for a long time, and I know it is only because
you have let me come out here, and lie in the
sunlight. You will let me come again—every
day, dear mother?"

How could she refuse the pleading voice
its last request? How could she look upon
the little shrunken figure, upon the little face,
with its beseeching gentle eyes, and deny him
what he asked—that she might keep him to
herself a few short days longer?

"You shall come, my darling, if it makes
you so happy," she said very softly: then she
took him in her arms, and bore him to the
house, kissing him with a wild passion that she
could not hide.

And so for two or three weeks, in the
bright sunny morning, Willie was always laid
on his couch in the sheltered corner near the
elm trees; but though he was very happy
lying there, and would often talk gaily of the
time when he should be well again, he never
got strong any more.

Day by day Gabrielle watched him, knowing
that the end was coming very near; but, with
her strong mother's love, hiding her sorrow
from him. She never told him that he was
dying; but sometimes they spoke together
of death, and often—for he liked to hear
her—she would sing sweet hymns to him,
that told of the heaven he was so soon
going to.

For two or three weeks it went on thus,
and then the last day came. He had been
suffering very much with the terrible cough,
each paroxysm of which shook the wasted
frame with a pain that pierced to
Gabrielle's heart: and all day he had had
no rest. It was a day in May—a soft
warm day. But the couch beneath the