"O, no!"

"You are an angel! You have been as good as you could be. f.a.n.n.y, we shall meet in heaven, for I feel just as though I could not live many days. We shall be friends there, if we cannot long be here."

"I hope you will get better," added f.a.n.n.y, because she could think of nothing else to say.

"No, I may die before morning, f.a.n.n.y; but I am ready. You are so good----"

"O, Jenny! I am not good! I cannot deceive you any longer!" exclaimed f.a.n.n.y, bursting into tears.

"Now I know that you are good. The blessed Bible says, 'He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.' I'm glad you don't think you are good."

"But I am not good, indeed I am not," sobbed f.a.n.n.y.

"Don't weep, dear f.a.n.n.y. I know how you feel; I have felt just so myself, when it seemed to me I was so wicked I couldn't live."

"You don't know how wicked I have been; what monstrous things I have done," added f.a.n.n.y, covering her face with her hands. "If you knew, you would despise me."

"You wrong yourself, f.a.n.n.y. Such a good, kind heart as you have would not let you do anything very bad."

"I have done what was very bad, Jenny; I have been the worst girl in the whole world; but I am so sorry!"

"I know you are. If you have done anything wrong,--we all do wrong sometimes,--you could not help being sorry. Your heart is good."

"Shall I tell you what I did?" asked f.a.n.n.y, in a low and doubtful tone.

"O, no! Don't tell me; tell it to G.o.d. He will pity and forgive you because you are really sorry."

"You would despise me if you knew how wicked I have been. It was seeing you, and thinking how good you are, which made me feel that I had done wrong."

"I'm sure, after all you have done for mother and for me, I can't help believing that you are an angel. I love you, and I know that you are good."

"I mean to be good, Jenny. From this time I shall try to do better than I ever did before."

"Then you will be, f.a.n.n.y."

"I don't think I ever tried to be good, but I shall now," replied the penitent girl, as she wiped away her tears.

Jenny seemed to be weary, and f.a.n.n.y sat by the bedside gazing in silence at her beautiful and tranquil expression. The sufferer was looking at the rich flowers of the bouquet, which had been placed on a stand at the side of the bed. They were a joy to her, a connecting link between the beautiful of heaven and the beautiful of earth.

"Will you sing me a hymn, f.a.n.n.y?" asked the sick girl, without removing her gaze from the flowers.

Without any other reply to the question, f.a.n.n.y immediately sang this verse:--

"If G.o.d hath made this world so fair, Where sin and death abound, How beautiful, beyond compare, Will Paradise be found!"

"How beautiful!" murmured Jenny, her eyes still fixed upon the flowers.

"Will you take out that moss-rose, f.a.n.n.y, and let me hold it in my hand?"

f.a.n.n.y gave her the flower, and then sang another hymn. For an hour she continued to sing, and Jenny listened to the sweet melodies, entranced and enraptured by the visions of heaven which filled her soul. Then she asked f.a.n.n.y to read to her from the Bible, indicating the book and chapter, which was the eighth chapter of Romans.

"'For we are saved by hope,'" f.a.n.n.y read.

"Now, stop a moment: 'For we are saved by hope,'" said the sufferer.

"Do you know what the emblem of Hope is, f.a.n.n.y?"

"An anchor."

"Will you hand me that little box on the table?"

f.a.n.n.y pa.s.sed the box to her, and she took from it a little gold breastpin, in the form of an anchor.

"This was given to me by my father when I was a little girl. My Sunday-school teacher told me years ago what an anchor was the emblem of, and told me at the same time to remember the verse you have just read--'For we are saved by hope.' That anchor has often reminded me what was to save me from sin. f.a.n.n.y, I will give you this breastpin to remember me by."

"I shall never forget you, Jenny, as long as I live!" said f.a.n.n.y, earnestly.

"But when you remember me, I want you to think what the anchor means.

You say you are not good, but I know you are. You mean to be good, you hope to be good; and that will make you good. Do you know we can always have what we hope for, if it is right that we should have it? What we desire most we labor the hardest for. If you really and truly wish to be good, you will be good."

f.a.n.n.y took the breastpin. If it had been worth thousands of dollars, it would not have been more precious to her. It was the gift of the loving and gentle being who was soon to be transplanted from earth to heaven; of the beautiful girl who had influenced her as she had never been influenced before; who had lifted her soul into a new atmosphere. She placed it upon her bosom, and resolved never to part with it as long as she lived.

"Hope and have, f.a.n.n.y," said Jenny, when she had rested for a time.

"Hope for what is good and true, and you shall have it; for if you really desire it, you will be sure to labor and to struggle for it."

"Hope and have," repeated f.a.n.n.y. "Your anchor shall mean this to me.

Jenny, I feel happier already, for I really and truly mean to be good.

But I think I ought to tell you how wicked I am."

"No, don't tell me; tell your mother."

"I have no mother."

"Then you are poorer than I am."

"And no father."

"Poor f.a.n.n.y! Then you have had no one to tell you how to be good."

"Yes, I have the kindest and best of friends; but I have been very ungrateful."

"They will forgive you, for you are truly sorry."

"Perhaps they will."

"I know they will."

Jenny was weary again, and f.a.n.n.y sang in her softest and sweetest tones once more. It was now the twilight of a long summer day, and Mrs. Kent, having finished her household duties, came into the room. Soon after, the sufferer was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to weaken and reduce her beyond the possibility of recovery. When it left her, she could not speak aloud.

"I am going, mother," said she, a little later. "f.a.n.n.y!"