from her face, and whisper in the unconscious baby's ear messages of
love for "the other little Willie, now waiting for her in Heaven."

At last Mary could no longer be deceived, and one day when Alice lay
gasping in Sally's lap she said, "Aunt Sally isn't Alice growing
worse? She doesn't play now, nor try to walk."

Sally laid her hand on Mary's face and replied, "Poor child, you'll
soon be all alone, for Willie's going to find his mother."

There was no outcry,--no sudden gush of tears, but nervously clasping
her hands upon her heart, as if the shock had entered there, Mary sat
down upon her bed, and burying her face in the pillow, sat there for a
long time. But she said nothing, and a careless observer might have
thought that she cared nothing, as it became each day more and more
evident that Alice was dying. But these knew not of the long nights
when with untiring love she sat by her sister's cradle, listening to
her irregular breathing, pressing her clammy hands, and praying to be
forgiven if ever, in thought or deed, she had wronged the little one
now leaving her.

And all this time there came no kind word or message of love from
Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy had told her so. "Oh,
if she would only come and see her;" said Mary, "it wouldn't seem half
so bad."

"Write to her," said Sal; "peradventure that may bring her."

Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a leaf from her
writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote hurriedly, "Ella, dear