How pure and fervent was the kiss laid instantly upon his lips!  There was a power in it to remand the evil influences that were surrounding and pressing in upon him like a flood.  All was quiet now, and Mrs. Morgan neither by word nor movement disturbed the solemn stillness that reigned in the apartment.  In a few minutes the deepened breathing of her husband gave a blessed intimation that he was sinking into sleep.  Oh, sleep! sleep!  How tearfully, in times past, had she prayed that he might sleep; and yet no sleep came for hours and days—­even though powerful opiates were given—­until exhausted nature yielded, and then sleep had a long, long struggle with death.  Now the sphere of his loving, innocent child seemed to have overcome, at least for the time, the evil influences that were getting possession even of his external senses.  Yes, yes, he was sleeping!  Oh, what a fervent “Thank God!” went up from the heart of his stricken wife.

Soon the quick ears of Mrs. Morgan detected the doctor’s approaching footsteps, and she met him at the door with a finger on her lips.  A whispered word or two explained the better aspect of affairs, and the doctor said, encouragingly: 

“That’s good, if he will only sleep on.”

“Do you think he will, doctor?” was asked anxiously.

“He may.  But we cannot hope too strongly.  It would be something very unusual.”

Both passed noiselessly into the chamber.  Morgan still slept, and by his deep breathing it was plain that he slept soundly.  And Mary, too, was sleeping, her face now laid against her father’s, and her arms still about his neck.  The sight touched even the doctor’s heart and moistened his eyes.  For nearly half an hour he remained; and then, as Morgan continued to sleep, he left medicine to be given immediately, and went home, promising to call early in the morning.

It is now past midnight, and we leave the lonely, sad-hearted watcher with her sick ones.

I was sitting, with a newspaper in my hand—­not reading, but musing—­at the “Sickle and Sheaf,” late in the evening marked by the incidents just detailed.

“Where’s your mother?” I heard Simon Slade inquire.  He had just entered an adjoining room.

“She’s gone out somewhere,” was answered by his daughter Flora.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long has she been away?”

“More than an hour.”

“And you don’t know where she went to?”

“No, sir.”

Nothing more was said, but I heard the landlord’s heavy feet moving backward and forward across the room for some minutes.

“Why, Ann! where have you been?” The door of the next room had opened and shut.

“Where I wish you had been with me,” was answered in a very firm voice.

“Where?”

“To Joe Morgan’s.”

“Humph!” Only this ejaculation met my ears.  But something was said in a low voice, to which Mrs. Slade replied with some warmth: