At last Mrs. Hamilton left the room, and Carrie, speaking to Lenora and one of the villagers who was present, asked if they, too, would not leave her alone for a time with Willie. They complied with her request, and then asking her brother to bring her pencil and paper, she hurriedly wrote a few lines to her father telling him of what she had heard, and entreating him, for her sake, and the sake of the mother with whom she would be when those words met his eye, not to do Walter so great a wrong. "I shall give this to Willie's care," she wrote, in conclusion, "and he will keep it carefully until you come.

And now, I bid you a long farewell, my precious father--my noble Mag--my darling Walter."

The note was finished, and calling Willie to her, she said, "I am going to die. When Maggie returns I shall be dead and still, like our own dear mother."

"Oh, Carrie, Carrie," sobbed the child, "don't leave me till Maggie comes."

There was a footstep on the stairs, and Carrie, without replying to her brother, said quickly, "Take this paper, Willie, and give it to father when he comes; let no one see it--Lenora, mother, nor any one."

Willie promised compliance, and had but just time to conceal the note in his bosom ere Mrs. Hamilton entered the room, accompanied by the physician, to whom she loudly expressed her regrets that her husband had not come, saying that she had that morning telegraphed again, although he could not now reach home until the morrow.

"To-morrow I shall never see," said Carrie, faintly. And she spoke truly, too, for even then death was freezing her life-blood with the touch of his icy hand. To the last she seemed conscious of the tiny arms which so fondly encircled her neck; and when the soul had drifted far out on the dark channel of death the childish words of "Carrie, Carrie, speak once more," roused her, and folding her brother more closely to her bosom, she murmured, "Willie, darling Willie, our mother is waiting for us both."

Mrs. Hamilton, who stood near, now bent down, and laying her hand on the pale, damp brow said gently, "Carrie, dear, have you no word of love for this mother?"

There was a visible shudder, an attempt to speak, a low moan, in which the word "Walter" seemed struggling to be spoken; and then death, as if impatient of delay, bore away the spirit, leaving only the form which in life had been most beautiful. Softly Lenora closed over the blue eyes the long, fringed lids, and pushed back from the forehead the sunny tresses which clustered so thickly around it; then, kissing the white lips and leaving on the face of the dead traces of her tears, she led Willie from the room, soothing him in her arms until he fell asleep.

Elsewhere we have said that for a few days Willie had not seemed well; but so absorbed were all in Carrie's more alarming symptoms that no one had heeded him, although his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his head was throbbing with pain. He was in the habit of sleeping in his parents' room, and that night his loud breathings and uneasy turnings disturbed and annoyed his mother, who at last called out in harsh tones, "Willie, Willie, for mercy's sake stop that horrid noise!

I shall never get asleep this way. I know there's no need of breathing like that!"

"It chokes me so," sobbed little Willie, "but I'll try."

Then pressing his hands tightly over his mouth, he tried the experiment of holding his breath as long as possible. Hearing no sound from his mother, he thought her asleep, but not venturing to breathe naturally until assured of the fact, he whispered, "Ma, ma, are you asleep?"

"Asleep! no--and never shall be, as I see. What do you want?"

"Oh, I want to breathe," said Willie.

"Well, breathe then; who hinders you?" was the reply; and ere the offensive sound again greeted her ear, Mrs. Hamilton was too far gone in slumber to be disturbed.

For two hours Willie lay awake, tossing from side to side, scorched with fever and longing for water to quench his burning thirst. By this time Mrs. Hamilton was again awake; but to his earnest entreaties for water--"Just one little drop of water, ma"--she answered:

"William Hamilton, if you don't be still I'll move your crib into the room where Carrie is, and leave you there alone!"

Unlike many children, Willie had no fears of the cold white figure which lay so still and motionless upon the parlor sofa. To him it was Carrie, his sister; and many times that day had he stolen in alone, and laying back the thin muslin which shaded her face, he had looked long upon her--had laid his hand on her icy cheek, wondering if she knew how cold she was, and if the way which she had gone was so long and dark that he could never find it. To him there was naught to fear in that room of death, and to his mother's threat he answered eagerly, "Oh, ma, give me some water, just a little bit of water, and you may carry me in there, I ain't afraid and my breathing won't wake Carrie up;" but before he had finished speaking his mother was again dozing.

"Won't anybody bring me some water--Maggie, Carrie--Leno--nobody?"

murmured poor Willie, as he Wet his pillow with tears.

At last he could bear it no longer. He knew where the water-bucket stood, and stepping from his bed, he groped his way down the long stairs to the basement. The spring moon was low in the western horizon, and shining through the curtained window, dimly lighted up the room. The pail was soon reached, and then in his eagerness to drink, he put his lips to the side. Lower, lower, lower it came, until he discovered, alas I that the pail was empty.

"What shall I do? what shall I do?" said he, as he crouched upon the cold hearthstone.

A new idea entered his mind. The well stood near the outer door; and, quickly pushing back the bolt, he went out, all flushed and feverish as he was, into the chill night air. There was ice upon the curbstone, but he did not mind it, although his little toes, as they trod upon it, looked red by the pale moonlight. Quickly a cup of the coveted water was drained; then, with careful forethought, he filled it again, and taking it back to his room, crept shivering to bed. Nature was exhausted, and whether he fainted or fell asleep is not known, for never again to consciousness in this world awoke the little boy.

The morning sunlight came softly in at the window, touching his golden curls with a still more golden hue. Sadly over him Lenora bent, saying, "Willie, Willie, wake up, Willie. Don't you know me?"

Greatly Mrs. Hamilton marveled whence came the cup of water which stood there, as if reproaching her for her cruelty. But the delirious words of the dreamer soon told her all. "Maggie, Maggie," he said, "rub my feet; they feel like Carrie's face. The curbstone was cold, but the water was so good. Give me more, more; mother won't care, for I got it myself, and tried not to breathe, so she could sleep--and Carrie, too, is dead--dead."

Lenora fiercely grasped her mother's arm, and said, "How could you refuse him water, and sleep while he got it himself?"

But Mrs. Hamilton needed not that her daughter should accuse her.

Willie had been her favorite, and the tears which she dropped upon his pillow were genuine. The physician who was called pronounced his disease to be scarlet fever, saying that its violence was greatly increased by a severe cold which he had taken.

"You have killed him, mother; you have killed him!" said Lenora.

Twenty-four hours had passed since, with straining ear, Carrie had listened for the morning train, and again down the valley floated the smoke of the engine, and over the blue hills echoed the loud scream of the locomotive; but no sound could awaken the fair young sleeper, though Willie started, and throwing up his hands, one of which, the right one, was firmly clinched, murmured, "Maggie, Maggie."

Ten minutes more and Margaret was there, weeping in agony over the inanimate form of her sister, and almost shrieking as she saw Willie's wild eye, and heard his incoherent words. Terrible to Mr. Hamilton was this coming home. Like one who walks in sleep, he went from room to room, kissing the burning brow of one child, and then, while the hot breath was yet warm upon his lips, pressing them to the cold face of the other.

All day Margaret sat by her dying brother, praying that he might be spared until Walter came. Her prayer was answered; for at nightfall Walter was with them. Half an hour after his return Willie died; but ere his right hand dropped lifeless by his side he held it up to view, saying:

"Father--give it to nobody but father."

After a moment Margaret, taking within hers the fast-stiffening hand, gently unclosed the fingers, and found the crumpled piece of paper on which Carrie had written to her father.

CHAPTER XI.

MARGARET AND HER FATHER.

'Twas midnight--midnight after the burial. In the library of the old homestead sat its owner, his arms resting upon the table, and his face reclining upon his arms. Sadly was he reviewing the dreary past, since first among them death had been, bearing away his wife, the wife of his first only love. Now, by her grave there was another, on which the pale moonbeams and the chill night-dews were falling, but they could not disturb the rest of the two who, side by side in the same coffin, lay sleeping, and for whom the father's tears were falling fast, and the father's heart was bleeding.

"Desolate, desolate--all is desolate," said the stricken man. "Would that I, too, were asleep with my lost ones!"

There was a rustling sound near him, a footfall, and an arm was thrown lovingly around his neck. Margaret's tears were on his cheek, and Margaret's voice whispered in his ear, "Dear father, we must love each other better now."

Margaret had not retired, and on passing through the hall, had discovered the light gleaming through the crevice of the library door.

Knowing that her father must be there, she had come in to comfort him.

Long the father and child wept together, and then Margaret, drying her tears said:

"It is right--all right; mother has two, and you have two, and though the dead will never return to us, we, in God's good time, will return to them."

"Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go," said Mr. Hamilton.

"I am weary, weary, Margaret; my life is one scene of bitterness. Oh, why, why was I left to do it?"

Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made no answer; and after he had become somewhat composed, thinking this a good opportunity for broaching the subject which had so troubled Carrie's dying moments, she drew from her bosom the soiled piece of paper, and placing it in his hands, watched him while he read. The moan of anguish which came from his lips as he finished made her repent of her act, and, springing to his side, she exclaimed:

"Forgive me, father; I ought not to have done it now. You have enough to bear."

"It is right, my child," said Mr. Hamilton; "for after the wound had slightly healed I might have wavered. Not that I love Walter less; but, fool that I am, I fear her who has made me the cowardly wretch you see!"

"Rouse yourself, then," answered Margaret. "Shake off her chain, and be free."

"I cannot, I cannot," said he. "But this I will do. I will make another will. I always intended to do so, and Walter shall not be wronged." Then rising, he hurriedly paced the room saying, "Walter shall not be wronged, no, no--Walter shall not be wronged."