“Mamma,” said the little girl, “I did write you that he was getting weaker and weaker; that he was no longer able to walk, or even drive out, and had wakeful, restless nights.  I thought you would certainly want to come to him when you heard that.  But don’t worry; Dr. Taylor has changed the medicine, and I hope he will soon be better now.”

“No, he wont; he’ll not live a month!” she exclaimed half angrily; then glancing at Evelyn’s pale, terror-stricken face, “Pshaw, child! don’t be frightened,” she said; “I did not really mean it; I dare say we shall have him about again in a few weeks.”

“Mamma, what do you really think?” asked the little girl, clasping her hands and gazing into her mother’s face with a look of agonized entreaty.  “I know you believe in deceiving people sometimes when you think it for their good, for I have heard you say so; but I want to know the truth, even if it breaks my heart.”

“I’m not a doctor, Evelyn,” returned her mother coldly; “I can judge only from appearances, which are as visible to you as to me.  Besides, what is the use of my giving my opinion, since you choose to believe I am capable of intentionally deceiving you?”

With the last word she sailed from the room, leaving Evelyn alone in the parlor, where the conversation had taken place.

Evelyn sat like one stunned by a heavy blow.  Could it be that her father was dying—­the dear father who was all the world to her?  Oh, what would life be worth without him? how could she go on living?  How soon would the dread parting come? how many more days or hours might she spend in his dear companionship?  Ah, those precious hours were fast slipping away; every moment spent away from his side was a great loss; she would go to him at once.

She started up, but dropped into her seat again; “mamma” was with him, and just now she would rather avoid her society.

Covering her face with her hands, she sat silently thinking,—­going over again in imagination all that had passed between her father and herself during the last few weeks, recalling their conversations, especially every word he had addressed to her bearing upon her future; all his loving counsels; his exhortations to lean upon God in every time of trial and perplexity; to carry every sorrow, anxiety, and care to the Lord Jesus in unwavering confidence that there she would find never-failing sympathy, comfort, and help.

And now for the first time it struck her that thus he was trying to prepare her to do without him—­the earthly parent who had been hitherto the confidant of all her childish griefs, perplexities, hopes, joys, and fears; and with the thought the conviction deepened that he was indeed passing away to that bourne whence no traveler returns.

Tears were stealing between the slender fingers, low, deep sobs shaking her slight frame, when a hand was gently laid upon her shoulder, and a sweet-toned voice asked in tender accents, “What is it, Evelyn, dear?”