and body were both out of tune, and discordant. In suffering, in
abject want and destitution, her heart still clung to her children,
and threw around them a sphere of intenser affection, as all that
was external grew darker, colder, and more dreary. They were her
jewels, and she could not part with them. They were hidden away in
her heart of hearts so deeply, that not a single one of them could
be taken without leaving it lacerated and bleeding.

When the doctor entered, he found her lying upon the bed, with the
body of her child hugged tightly to her bosom. Little Emma had crept
away into a corner of the room, and looked frightened. Henry was
crouching in a chair, with the tears running down his cheeks in
streams.

"You are too late, doctor," said the mother, in a tone so calm, so
clear, and yet to his ear so thrilling, that he started, and felt a
chill pass through his frame. There was something in the sound of
that voice in ill accordance with the scene.

As she spoke, she glanced at the physician with bright, tearless
eyes for a moment; and then, turning away her head, she laid her
cheek against that of the corpse, and drew the lifeless body with
trembling eagerness to her heart.

"This is all vain, my dear madam!" urged Dr. R--, approaching the
bedside, and laying his hand upon her. "Come! Be a woman. To bear is
to conquer our fate. No sorrow of yours can call back the happy
spirit of your child. And, surely, you would not call her back, if
you could, to live over the days of anguish and pain that were meted
out to her?"