Mrs. Wentworth did not reply to his candid remarks.  She did not tell him that for weeks past her children and herself had scarcely been able to find bread to eat, much less to pay a doctor’s bill.  She did not tell him that she was friendless and unknown; that her husband had been taken prisoner while struggling for his country’s rights; that Mr. Elder had turned herself and her children from a shelter, because she had no money to pay him for the rent of the room; nor did she tell him that the fee he had received, was obtained by theft—­was the fruit of a transgression of God’s commandments.

She forgot all these.  The reproach of the physician had fallen like a thunderbolt from Heaven, in her bosom.  Already in her heart she accused herself with being the murderess of her child.  Already she imagined, because her poverty had prevented her receiving medical advice, that the accusing Angel stood ready to prefer charges against her for another and a greater crime, than any she had ever before committed.

“Dying! dying!” she uttered at last, her words issuing from her lips, as if they were mere utterances from some machine.  “No hope—­no hope!”

“Accept my commiseration, madam,” observed the physician, placing his hat on, and preparing to depart.  “Could I save your child, I would gladly do so, but there is no hope.  She may live until nightfall, but even that is doubtful.”

Bowing to Mrs. Wentworth, he left the room, in ignorance of the agony his reproach had caused her, and returned to his office.  Dr. Mallard was the physician’s name.  They met again.

Ella had listened attentively to the physicians words, but not the slightest emotion was manifested by her, when he announced that she was dying.  She listened calmly, and as the doctor had finished informing her mother of the hopelessness of her case, the little pale lips moved slowly, and the prayer that had been taught her when all was joy and happiness, was silently breathed by the dying child.

“Mother,” she said, as soon as Dr. Mallard had left the room.  “Come here and speak to me before I die.”

“Ella!  Ella!” exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth wildly.  “Did you not hear what the physician said?”

“Yes, mother,” she answered, “but I knew it before.  Do not look so sad, come and speak to me, and let me tell you that I am not afraid to die.”

“Ella, my darling child,” continued Mrs. Wentworth in the same strain.  “Did you not hear the physician say it is my neglect that had caused you to be dying?”

“I heard him mother, but he was not right,” she replied.

“Come nearer,” she continued in an earnest tone.  “Sit on the bed and let me rest my head on your lap.”

Seating herself on the bed, Mrs. Wentworth lifted the body of the dying child in her arms, and pillowed her head on her breast.  The old negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking on quietly, while the tears poured down her aged cheeks.  Mrs. Wentworth’s little son climbed on the bed, and gazed in wonder at the sad aspect of his mother, and the dying features of his sister.