last in the month—­our darling seemed ill.  The next day we recognised the symptoms we had seen in Jessie, and the doctor was called in.  Tuesday and Wednesday he came and gave no hint of danger, but on Wednesday night we perceived a change and on Thursday came the sentence:  No hope.  Oh friend, dear friend! how can I tell you of the long hours when we could not help our darling—­of the dark night when, forbidden the room from the malignity of the case, we went to bed to coax mamma to do so—­of the grey February dawn when there came the words, “Our darling is quite well now”—­quite well, forever taken from the evil to come.

The Sunday night before, she came into the parlor with “Susy” under her arm and petitioned for some one to read the “Teachers’ meeting.”  “Why, you read it twice this afternoon,” said one.  “Yes, I know—­but it’s so nice,” was the reply.  “Pearlie will be six in September,” said the gentle mother; “we must have a Teachers’ meeting for her, I think.”  “But perhaps I sha’n’t ever be six,” said the little one.  “Oh Pearlie, why do you say so?” “Well, people don’t all be six, you know,” affirmed our darling with solemn eyes and two dimples in the rosy cheeks, that were hid forever from us before the next Sabbath day.

On the Wednesday we borrowed from a little friend the other books of the series, thinking they might afford some amusement for the weary hours of illness, and Annie, my next sister, read four of the birthdays to her and then wished to stop, fearing she might be too fatigued.  “No, read one more,” was the request, and “That will do—­I’m five, read the last to-morrow,” she said, when it was complied with.  Ah me! with how many tears we took up that book again.  That Wednesday she sat up in bed, a glass of medicine in her hand.  “Mamma,” she said, “Miss Joy has gone quite away and only left Mr. Pain.  She can’t come back till my throat is well.”  “But Mrs. Love is here, is she not?” “Oh, yes,” and the dear heavy eyes turned from one to another.  In the night, when she lay dying, came intervals of consciousness; in one of these she took her handkerchief and gave it to papa, who watched by her, asking him to wet it and put it on her head.  When he told us, we recollected the incident when Susy in the favorite book was ill.  And can you understand how our hearts felt very tender toward you and we said you must be thanked.  I should weary you if I told you all the incidents that presented themselves of how sweet and good she was in her illness; how in the agony of those last hours, when no fear of infection could restrain the passionate kisses papa was showering on her, the dear voice said with a stop and an effort between each word, “Don’t kiss me on my mouth, papa; you may catch it”; how everything she asked for was prefaced by “please,” how self was always last in her thoughts.  “I’m keeping you awake, you darling.”  “Don’t stand there—­you’ll be so tired—­sit down or go down-stairs, if you like.”