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“While there is life, there is hope,” he replied briefly.

“Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it,” she urged appealingly. “If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it.”

“I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is,” he replied, evasively. “As I have just said, where there is life, there is hope.”

Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of Ellen quickly.

“I am here, Margaret,” replied the sister, bending over her.

“Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?” she said, looking up into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the presence of others. “I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I waited and waited, and you didn’t come home! You won’t go away any more–will you, Ellen?”

“No–no, sister, I won’t leave you again,” said Ellen, soothingly, her tears starting afresh.

The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen’s long detention from her sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions. And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled, and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group there.

Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it; death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that knows no earthly waking.

After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent home.

The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy’s family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully accepted.

During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand.

“Here is a dress for you, Ellen,” she said, handing her the piece of bombazine.

Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face flushed an instant, and then grew pale.

“You will want a black dress, Ellen,” resumed Mrs. Condy, “and I have bought you one.”

“I do not wish to put on black,” said she, with a slightly embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled and was hardly audible.

“And why not, Ellen?” urged Mrs. Condy.

“I never liked black,” she replied evasively. “And, anyhow, it would do no good,” she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.

“No, child, it wouldn’t do any good,” said Mr. Condy, tenderly and with emotion. “And if you don’t care about having it, don’t take it.”

Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by her simple and true remark, “that it would do no good,” and each one respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of Ellen’s unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them.