grew and went on resistlessly, The weather
was intensely hot; the flies, drawn, no doubt,
by the miasma of the complaint, poured in
in legions—eager, fearless, intensely active,
and assailant legions—and it required all
George's exertions to whisk them away with
his never-resting branch from the face of his
friend.

Adam's head was become more confused,
his thoughts wandered, he was already
delirious, though quietly so, and his mind was
busy in the home of his youth. He told his
mother and sister what he had been doing
for them, how successful he had been; a few
more years, and he should come back a very,
very rich man, and then they should never
know any more poverty, any more necessity
with all its curtailings and contrivings. There
was another—being a Mary Hepburn—who
made a beautiful part of the picture of that
fair future, and his dear friend George, his
friend and brother, how were they all to
love him for his kindness and faithful affection
to him.

As he uttered these things, George listened
with a heart ready to break, and often started
up wildly, as if he would snatch and tear
away the clinging evil that enveloped him.
He saw here revealed the daily thoughts
which reigned in the mind of poor Adam—
which had made his rides so delightful, his
duties so easy; arid now, if the worst
happened, what was to become of those beloved
beings for whom he had thus planned and
toiled? How was he himself to bear it?

His reflections were interrupted by the
entrance of the doctor, attended by another
medical man. George's heart felt a spasm at
the sight; it was proof that the doctor was
himself alarmed. They requested George to
allow them to be alone for a few minutes,
and then the doctor, stepping out with a
grave air, said to George:

"You must be courageous, my friend;
you must not be cast down; but I fear the
fever will prove too strong for us. It is a
bad case, and I am very sorry. Poor
Swinburne! he is a fine fellow, a noble fellow!
think I never saw such a man. So clever, so
modest, and so good. If ever there was a
martyr to a kind, generous heart, it is our
friend. But what are you about?" perceiving
George standing as if frozen to the spot, and
trembling in every joint with emotion.

"You must not give way, Mr. Widdrington
—you must not, indeed; we'll try yet—we
may succeed. All is as God wills, and as for
you, you have so much to do. You must
keep the tent as cool as you can; and these
cursed flies, don't let them tease him;
moisten the patient's lips often with water,
keep these cooling wet cloths to his heart,
and I'll be back presently."

The doctors in silence took their leave.
George went in, threw himself down by the
sufferer's bed, kissed passionately his burning
forehead, and his fevered, dry hand, while
poor Adam slept soundly and unconscious of
his friend's affliction. What a watch of deep
and speechless wretchedness was that of
George Widdrington! With no soul to
exchange a thought, a care, with—all alone
in the world with this great grief, this
overwhelming terror and trouble. Yet incessantly
he waved the protecting bough, keeping back
the undaunted pestilence of flies, and
replacing cool cloths on the burning head of
his friend, and moistening his parched lips.

The doctor re-appeared.

"He sleeps!" cried George; "sleeps deep
and quietly—that must be well."

The information elicited no approving
nod, or brightening expression, from the
doctor.

"It is comatose sleep," he said; "it bodes
us no good."

George was struck dumb, and the coldness
of death seemed to go through his very
marrow.

In that warm season of a climate so much
warmer than our own, the progress of disease
was rapid. Adam slept on. Night came;
the tormenting flies withdrew, and George
sat motionless by the sick bed, the picture of
desolation. Adam moved, opened his eyes,
and seeing George as he there sat, haggard
and ghostlike with watching and harrowing
anxiety, he put out his hand and said,

"Dearest George, we must part. I feel it
—and I imagined it before. But you must
bear up. You have many dear to you. If
you are not happy in this country—go to
them—that is the best fortune. And—but I
will not repeat it—you will be kind to my
beloved ones, as you have been kind to me.
And now, dear Geordy, one more chapter of
St. John."

George was beside himself with grief; he
sobbed hysterically, but could not speak a
word. Yet he rose, brought the Bible, and
after a hard struggle with himself, he opened
the book and read, "Let not your hearts be
troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in
me. In my father's house there are many
mansions. I go to prepare a place for
you."

At this point George felt a strong pressure
of Adam's hand. He looked at him. Adam
gave him an inexpressibly affectionate smile,
and once more his eyes closed—his grasp
relaxed—and George sat silently gazing upon
him. This had continued about a quarter of
an hour, when he perceived Adam slightly
move, give a faint sigh, and lie still. It was
an ominous stillness. George started up, put
his hand to his mouth, and sank back into
his seat, clasping his head hard between his
hands. Adam was dead!

If ever there was a desolate spot on earth,
it was that tent that night; if ever a grief-
prostrated being, it was poor George. Through
those long dark hours he sat, and the whole
world seemed dark with him. Till that
moment he never seemed to have known all