"Hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window.
"He is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultry
evening. I would not rake that bed to-night, John, I think."

"It is _his_ garden, Emilie."

"Yes, I know"--and she sighed.--

"It _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and the
least untidiness. He will be sure to notice it when he is drawn out
to-morrow."

"John there may be no to-morrow for Joe, he is altered very much to-day,
and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. He won't come down again, I
think."

"May I go and sit by him, Emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering up
his tools and preparing to leave his employment.

"Yes, but be very still."

It was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose frame
was gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcely
ever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, weary
sleeper. So Emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window and
watched them both. The roses and the carnations that John had brought to
his friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpse
of the dying boy. There was that in the action which convinced Emilie
that John was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down to
watch him. The stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birds