When Mrs. Hamilton reached the bedside of her child, she found him
delirious, and was shocked to see he did not know her. He was much
sicker than she expected to find him, and her heart sunk within her.

"Is there no hope, Doctor?" she asked, with a quivering lip.

"Certainly there is a chance for a boy of his age; but he is a very sick
child, Mrs. Hamilton. Twill be a hard struggle for life, and it is
impossible to tell what will be the result."

Day after, day, night after night, the mother bent over the sick-bed of
her child; her heart sickening with alternations of hope and fear.
Sometimes the pulse would lessen, and the medicine seem to affect him
favorably, and she would hope her prayers had been heard, and that life
and not death was to be his fate; then the fever would rage with renewed
violence, and his little frame would be convulsed with pain. At no time
did he appear to know who was with him, or have the slightest gleam of
consciousness.

He talked but little, and that incoherently; like one in a dream. Those
were long, sad hours to the anxious mother's heart. "How I lived through
those days and weeks of anguish, I know not," she afterwards said, "but
strength was given me according to the day."

And where was Rover, faithful, affectionate Rover, in these mournful
days? The poor animal moaned and howled perpetually. He would it through
the whole day and night, upon the stairs leading to Arthur's room,
endeavoring to gain admittance, and when driven away, would contrive to
return to his post, watching with intense eagerness those who entered or
left the room; continually making that dismal moaning which a dog in