little hands, and dropping them upon her father's knee, buried her
face there; then the lips of that dying man parted, and the last
pulses of his life glowed out in a prayer so fervent, so powerful
in its faith, that the very angels of heaven must have veiled their
faces as they listened to that blending of eternal faith and human
sorrow.

Mary listened at first tremblingly, and with strange awe; then the
burning words began to thrill her, heart and limb, and yielding to
the might of a spirit which his prayer had drawn down from heaven.
She also broke forth with a cry of the same holy anguish; and the
voice of father and child rose and swelled together up to the throne
of God.

As he prayed, the face of the sick man grew sublime in its paleness,
and the death sweat rolled over it like rain, while that of the child
grew strangely luminous. Gradually mouth, eyes and forehead kindled
with glorious joy, and instead of that heart-rending petition that
broke from her at first, her voice mellowed into soft throes and
murmurs of praise.

The sick man hushed his soul and listened; his exhausted voice broke
into sighs, and thus, after a little time, they both sunk into
silence--the child filled with strange ecstasy--the father bowing
with calm joy beneath the hand of death.

"Let me lie down. I am very, very weak," he said, attempting to rise.

Mary stood up and helped him. She had grown marvellously strong within
the last hour, and her soul, better than that slight form, supported