from the cold; be mother and father too, to him. If he is sick, let no one sit by him and nurse him but you. Lead him to God. Do all this! oh, I know you will do all this, and more than this, for our sweet Willy; and oh, forget and forgive his faulty mother, who could not make you happy."

Fanny said this in such a hurried and vehement manner, that it was in vain that her husband attempted to interrupt her with his protest against taking their child with him. In the midst of his agony of mind at witnessing his wife's sufferings, and his admiration of her magnanimous self-sacrifice, he felt a strange joy thrill through his whole soul.

"Be composed, my dear Fanny; I cannot take away our boy from you, I never will do this. Do not ask this."

"Oh but you have promised you will, and you must take Willy with you."

"He sha'nt take me from my mother," said the child, who just then ran in, and heard the last words.

"He is your own boy, Fanny, you have the best right to him. If I must go, I will leave our dear child with you."

66 But you shall not go, you shall not leave

me," said Willy. "I will stay with father and mother too; let me hug you both together." And with his little but irresistible strength the child pulled his father towards his mother, and lifted up his mother's arm to put it round his and his father's neck; but it dropped lifeless. Mr. Roberts caught his wife, just as she was sinking on the floor.

When Fanny recovered from the heavy swoon she had fallen into, she was seized with violent chills, which were followed by a high fever, and before the physician who was sent for, arrived, her mind began to wander, with all the symptoms of a severe and dangerous illness.

A deeper gloom hung upon the heart of Mr. Roberts on the day of his father's funeral, than that which even the most affectionate son feels when he is called upon to consign to the grave the remains of the being, who has been the author of his earthly existence, the patient, the watchful, the ever-forgiving and loving guardian of his childish and youthful days, the priceless companion and friend of his maturer life. Deep and heartfelt as is this sorrow it is in the order of nature; and the aching heart readily acknowledges the duty of acquiescence. So felt this faithful

and affectionate son. He had a far deeper sorrow to endure; he feared that the being whom he had taken to his heart with the hope and belief that she would take the place of all other earthly affections to him, that she would be the heart of his heart, and the life of his life, the joy of all his joys, would be taken from him in the sweet morning and blossoming time of her existence.-But had she redeemed the pledge and promise of the beautiful sunny hours of her early days? Had she been faithful to the spirit of her promise of devoted love? Had he? Had he faithfully cherished the heart that had committed itself so trustfully, so fondly to his care?

These last questions came to Roberts' mind with a terrible energy. "But," he said to himself, "she does not love me as I hoped, as I desired to be loved; she would be happier without me. It is sad, oh terribly sad, to see such a being so formed for enjoyment, so young, with the cup of happiness before her but just tasted, to see her snatched away so suddenly, to see all her young hopes blighted. I hoped that I alone should be sacrificed; I hoped that when relieved from my presence she might be happy; but it is I that have killed her."

Such were the agonizing thoughts that passed and re-passed through the mind of the miserable man, as he performed the last duties to his departed parent. When he returned from the dwelling-place of the dead to his own house, a more fearful coldness than he had there felt came upon him as he heard the answer to his inquiry about his wife, from the doctor whom he met at the door. "She is no better; she is still delirious, I think her case a very alarming one.”

"Oh that I could die to save her," exclaimed Roberts, as he sat down at his lonely fireside. "Oh that by any suffering, or sacrifice,

I might restore her to life!"

"Let us ask our Father in heaven to make mother well," said Willy who had crept into the room, and climbed his father's knees, and put his arms round his neck. "Let us beg him very hard, dear father, and I am sure he will."

His father folded his boy in his arms, and wept with him; and his soul seemed refreshed and strengthened with hope, as he pressed the little fellow to his aching heart.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"How is 't

That in affliction only we can see

The hand of God leading the good to good,
And ministering, by man himself, to man?"
HERMAN AND DOROTHEA.

THE effort that Fanny had made to surrender up her boy to the care of his father, had evidently accelerated the disease which had been for some time preying upon her nervous system. During her delirium, she was continually repeating her directions to his father about the care of Willy. "Don't," she would cry out, "let any one frighten my little boy. Willy is a brave boy now. When he is sick, he will cry for his mother; then don't be angry with him, but hush him gently; put your arms around him softly, so; and sing to him very sweetly, so." Then she would sing such wild and plaintive notes, that the heart of poor Roberts was like to break. Sometimes she would exclaim, "Now I have saved my boy. Now