cheek grew deeper and the light of her eye wilder and more startling, an agonized fear held the old man’s heart in thrall.  Many and many a weary night found him sleepless, as he wet his pillow with tears.  Not such tears as he wept when Richard Wilmot died, nor such as fell upon the grave of his first-born, for oh, his grief then was naught compared with what he now felt for his Sunshine, his idol, his precious Fanny.  “I cannot, cannot let her die,” was the cry which hourly welled up from the depths of that fond father’s aching heart.  “Take all, take everything I own, but leave me Sunshine; she mustn’t, mustn’t die.”

Earnestly did Fanny pray that her father might be enabled better to bear his affliction.  But he turned a deaf ear alike to her and his gentle, enduring wife, who, bowed with sorrow, yet sought to soothe her grief-stricken husband.  Sadly he would turn away saying, “It’s no use talking.  I can’t be pious if they take Fanny away.  I can see why t’other one died.  ’Twas to bring me to my senses, and show me how bad I used her; but Fanny, my Sunshine, what has Josh done that she should leave him too?  Oh, it’s more than I can bar.”

At Dr. Gordon’s request a council of physicians in Frankfort was called.  As the one who came last was about to enter her room, Mr. Middleton detained him while he said, “Save her, doctor, save her, and you shall have all I’m worth.”  Impatiently he awaited the decision.  It came, but alas, it brought no hope.

Mr. William Middleton, who had recently come from New Orleans, broke the news to his unhappy brother.  Terrible was the anguish of Uncle Joshua, when he became convinced that he must lose her.  Nothing could induce him to leave her room; and as if endowed with superhuman strength, he watched by her constantly, only leaving her once each day to visit the quiet grave, the bed of his other daughter, where now the long green grass was waving, and the summer flowers were blooming, flowers which Fanny’s hand had planted and the father’s tears had watered.

One night they were alone, the old man and his child.

For several hours Fanny had turned uneasily upon her pillow, but she at last fell into a deep sleep.  For a time her father sat quietly listening to the sound of her breathing, then arising, he softly drew aside the curtains and looked long and anxiously at her as she slept.

Suddenly lifting his hands he exclaimed, “Oh, God, save her, or help me to bear it if she dies.”  It was the first prayer which for long, long years had passed his lips, but it had a power to bring back the olden feeling, when a happy boy, he had knelt at his mother’s side, and was not ashamed to pray.  Falling on his knees, he tried to recall the words of prayer his mother had taught him, but one petition alone came from his heart in that dark, midnight hour.  “Oh, don’t let Fanny die, don’t let her die, for who will comfort old Joshua when she is gone.”