and have sent his friendly and hopeful accents far over on the other
side, while I should be treading the unknown path. Now, were I to
send for him, he would hardly come to my bedside, nor should I depart
the easier for his presence.

"You are not going to die, this time," said he, gravely smiling.
"You know nothing about sickness, and think your case a great deal
more desperate than it is."

"Death should take me while I am in the mood," replied I, with a
little of my customary levity.

"Have you nothing to do in life," asked Hollingsworth, "that you
fancy yourself so ready to leave it?"

"Nothing," answered I; "nothing that I know of, unless to make pretty
verses, and play a part, with Zenobia and the rest of the amateurs,
in our pastoral. It seems but an unsubstantial sort of business, as
viewed through a mist of fever. But, dear Hollingsworth, your own
vocation is evidently to be a priest, and to spend your days and
nights in helping your fellow creatures to draw peaceful dying
breaths."

"And by which of my qualities," inquired he, "can you suppose me
fitted for this awful ministry?"

"By your tenderness," I said. "It seems to me the reflection of
God's own love."

"And you call me tender!" repeated Hollingsworth thoughtfully. "I