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The one lamp burned low; a few dying embers lay upon the earth, and no sound broke the silence but the steady rustle of Bess’s needle, and the echo of Jamie’s hollow cough.

“Wrap it around Bess; she has given me her cloak, and needs it more than I,–these coverings do very well;” and as he spoke, Jamie put away the blanket Walter offered, and suppressing a shiver, hid his purple hands beneath the old, thin cloak.

“Here is bread, Jamie; eat for Heaven’s sake, no need to save it now;” and Walter pressed it on the boy, but he only took a little, saying he had not much need of food and loved to see them eat far better.

So in the cheery blaze of the rekindled fire, Bess and Walter broke their long fast, and never saw how eagerly Jamie gathered up the scattered crumbs, nor heard him murmur softly, as he watched them with loving eyes,–

“There will be no cold nor hunger up in heaven, but enough for all,–enough for all.”

“Walter, you’ll be kind to Bess when I am not here?” he whispered earnestly, as his friend came to draw his bed within the ruddy circle of the firelight gleaming on the floor.

“I will, Jamie, kinder than a brother,” was the quick reply. “But why ask me that with such a wistful face?”

The boy did not answer, but turned on his pillow and kissed his sister’s shadow as it flitted by.

Gray dawn was in the sky before they spoke again. Bess slept the deep, dreamless sleep of utter weariness, her head pillowed on her arms. Walter sat beside the bed, lost in sweet and bitter musings, silent and motionless, fancying the boy slept. But a low voice broke the silence, whispering feebly.

“Walter, will you take me in your strong arms and lay me on my little couch beside the window? I should love to see the cross again, and it is nearly day.”

So light, so very light, the burden seemed, Walter turned his face aside lest the boy should see the sorrowful emotion painted there, and with a close embrace he laid him tenderly down to watch the first ray climbing up the old gray tower.

“The frost lies so thickly on the window-panes that you cannot see it, even when the light comes, Jamie,” said his friend, vainly trying to gratify the boy’s wish.

“The sun will melt it soon, and I can wait,–I can wait, Walter; it’s but a little while;” and Jamie, with a patient smile, turned his face to the dim window and lay silent.

Higher and higher crept the sunshine till it shone through the frostwork on the boy’s bright head; his bird awoke and carolled blithely, but he never stirred.

“Asleep at last, poor, tired little Jamie; I’ll not wake him till the day is warmer;” and Walter, folding the coverings closer over the quiet figure, sat beside it, waiting till it should wake.

“Jamie dear, look up, and see how beautifully your last rose has blossomed in the night when least we looked for it;” and Bess came smiling in with the one white rose, so fragrant but so frail.

Jamie did not turn to greet her, for all frost had melted from the boy’s life now; another flower had blossomed in the early dawn, and though the patient face upon the pillow was bathed in sunshine, little Jamie was not there to see it gleaming on the cross. God had remembered him.

Spring showers had made the small mound green, and scattered flowers in the churchyard. Sister Bess sat in the silent room alone, working still, but pausing often to wipe away the tears that fell upon a letter on her knee.

Steps came springing up the narrow stairs and Walter entered with a beaming face, to show the first rich earnings of his pen, and ask her to rest from her long labor in the shelter of his love.