to be comforted by the assurance of her pardon.

"When I next saw Amy, she was asleep. The bright flush had faded from
her cheek, whose marble paleness was shaded by her long eyelashes.
Delirium had ceased, and the aching heart was still. That small, white
hand, which had been held out tremblingly, to receive the blows of the
harsh ferule, now lay lovingly folded within the other. Never again
would tears flow from those gentle eyes, nor that bosom heave with
sorrow. That sleep was the sleep of death!

"My grief was wilder, if not deeper, than that mother's of whose lost
treasure I had robbed her. She forgave me; but I could not forgive
myself. What a long, long winter followed. My sufferings threw me into a
fever, and in my delirium I called continually upon Amy.

"But God listened to the prayers of my dear father, and raised me from
this sickness. And when the light footsteps of spring were seen upon
the green earth, and early flowers were springing up around the grave of
Amy, for the first time, I was allowed to visit it.

"My head swam, as I read, lettered so carefully on the white tablet:--

"'AMY SINCLAIR, _Fell asleep September third.'_

"Beside that fresh turf I knelt down, and offered, as I trust, the
prayer of faith. I was there relieved, and strengthened too, Bessie,"
said Aunt Ruth, as she laid her hand tenderly upon that young head bowed
down upon her lap.

[Illustration]