DYING.

Hudson did not, as he had intended, return to his rooms after that interview with his daughter, but some time after there came a letter in the old man's writing, directed to Rhoda Weeks.

Rhoda was brushing Luke's well-worn coat, and giving a last touch to his neck-tie, preparatory to his going out to rehearsal, when the unfortunate little maid of all work, who belonged to the woman down stairs, came in with the letter, which she handed to Rhoda.

"What on earth!" exclaimed the energetic young damsel. "What do you bring that here for?"

"'Cause it's for you," returned the little maid, with a snuffle habitual to her.

"Can't be for me," answered Rhoda, positively. "Never had a letter in my life, and 'tisn't likely I'm going to begin now."

She spoke as if she had attained the age of Methuselah, at least, and leveled the brush at the girl, as if warding off the missive which the creature extended in her much soiled hand.

"The old woman said it was for you," she persisted. "I can't read myself; but if you can, why you'll soon find out whether it's for you, if you look at it."

"There is something in that," said Rhoda, not over pleased at this implied doubt of her skill in caligraphy. "Take the brush, Luke, and don't leave all that dust on your shoulder."

Rhoda snatched the letter and held it at arm's length, peering at it with one eye half closed, as though she thought there was something too suspicious in its appearance for her to trust it nearer.

"Well, if ever!" she exclaimed. "No, actually, I never did!"

"What is it?" Luke asked.

"Just what I want to know," she replied. "There it is, big as life and twice as natural—Miss Rhoda Weeks. I say, Luke, we're coming up in the world when folks take to writing me letters, and directing them in that way."

"Know'd it was for you," sniffled the little maid. "I guess I'm right, sometimes, as well as other folks."

Rhoda turned upon her with great majesty. In this important crisis of her life, when she held in her hand the first letter she had ever received, common manners and words were too much out of place for her to think of employing them.

"Cynthy," said she, "you mean well enough, but you had better go down stairs when people have business affairs on hand; the old lady's calling to you in a way that'll injure her throat, if it doesn't end in a fit."

Cynthia sniffled more desperately than ever, quite awed by the match-girl's dignity, and shied away toward the door.

"Cynthy!" called Rhoda, struck by a sudden thought. "Just say to Mrs. Dawson it's for me, and I dare say there'll more be coming—plenty of them; so tell her to take good care they are sent up at once."

"Who is it from?" Luke asked, as the girl disappeared.

"We shall know that by-and-by," said Rhoda, somewhat severely.

She looked at the superscription again—examined the postmark, and finally opened the envelope with great care, and began to read. Luke went on with his preparations for a walk, but presently he was startled by a loud exclamation from his sister.

"What is it?" he cried, eagerly. "What is the matter, Rhoda?"

"They're coming back—somebody is sick. Oh! the poor thing! And I'm to dust their rooms and get them all ready by to-morrow."

"The Hudsons? Is Miss Constance sick?"

"Yes! I suppose it is her. Oh! what will the poor old man do! Here, read the letter, Luke; I must get the keys and see that everything is straight. I've swept the rooms two or three times; but I'll brighten 'em up now, I'll bet. Oh! my poor Miss Constance—I'm so sorry."

Luke read the letter, but he had no time to do more than express his regret, for it was growing late; besides, good and gentle as he was, his mind was so completely occupied by its one engrossing thought, that he found it difficult to realize or comprehend anything outside of that beautiful dream.

Rhoda passed a grand gala day in setting the rooms to rights, polishing up the furniture, and making Constance's chamber look sunny and cheerful. She was disturbed only by the thought that the young lady, whom she had last seen so lovely and joyous, could be ill and suffering.

It was late in the afternoon of the next day, when a carriage drove up to the door, and Mr. Hudson got out, looking more worn and troubled than of old.

Rhoda happened to be down in Mrs. Dawson's room, and she ran out into the hall just as Mr. Hudson lifted a female from her seat. The traveling-veil, which was thrown over her bonnet, was of barege; but Rhoda could dimly see the outlines of the beautiful face underneath, so changed and pale, save for the hectic spot burning visibly on either cheek, that she uttered a cry of dismay and grief, calling out involuntary, "Oh, my! Oh, my!"

Hudson made a warning gesture which silenced her, and carried his pale burden up the steps easily as if she had been a child.

"Shall I help you?" Rhoda whispered, awed by the man's strange manner.

He shook his head.

"Are the rooms ready?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I've just come down—everything is done."

She ran up stairs before them, and opened the door of Constance's bedroom, pulling down the curtains to make a pleasant shadow in the chamber. She forced back the tears which rose to her eyes, as the suffering young creature entered the room and muttered,

"A body can cry when there is nothing else to do; this isn't the time to be spattering salt water about! Oh! the poor dear! She'll die—she'll die!"

Hudson helped the sick girl to her bed, folding her tenderly with his arm. Rhoda whispered to him asking if she should get her things off.

"Yes—undress her," he said. "I'll have the man bring her trunk up. I must go for the doctor."

Rhoda took off the thick veil, and looked at that poor, worn face in the dim, half light, so lovely still, but with the trace of death stamped on every lineament. The girl lay with her eyes closed, evidently conscious, but too weak and tired to make the least exertion.

Suddenly she opened her eyes, and glanced about in a half frightened way.

"Where is he? where am I?" she cried, feebly.

Hudson had reached the door, but at the sound of her voice he hurried back to the bed, and bent over her, whispering some words which seemed to calm her.

Like the sensible little woman she was, Rhoda did not attempt to speak to the sick girl, who had resumed her former passive attitude. She flew noiselessly about, got some fresh water in a basin, poured a little cologne in it, and began bathing the fevered head and wasted hands.

"That is cool and pleasant," murmured the girl, half opening her eyes. "How good you are."

It seemed to Rhoda that Constance's voice had never sounded so sweet; the old imperiousness had quite gone out of it; the face, too, had gained a gentleness and patience such as only suffering can bring—all this fairly wrung the little creature's heart.

"Oh! don't you know me?" she exclaimed, with one little sob. "I'm Rhoda Weeks—I mean to take care of you. I know you'll be better soon."

"Rhoda Weeks," the sick girl repeated, softly, "Yes, I know who it is. Will you take care of me? He said you would. I try to be patient; don't let him be troubled."

Just then Hudson returned, accompanied by a man carrying the trunk.

"I wish you would get fresh things out for her," he said to Rhoda; "I won't be gone long."

Rhoda attacked the trunk at once, while Mr. Hudson went up to the bed, and stood passing his hand softly over the invalid's hair, telling her that he would soon be back. When he came into the sitting room again, Rhoda saw that his eyes were full of tears, and she longed, in some way, to show her sympathy for him.

"I'll do everything I can," she said, pulling diligently at the straps of the trunk. "I'm so sorry—it breaks my heart. Oh, dear! this key won't go in—yes, it's all right. Has she been sick long?"

"Yes," he answered, in a broken voice. "I am much obliged to you, Rhoda—you're a good girl."

"Nothing to brag of," said Rhoda; "but I ain't a heathen quite. I'm a pretty good nurse, too—I'll show you. She'll see."

"I know," he replied. "She is very weak, Rhoda, and can't bear being talked to—we must be very quiet."

"As mice," said Rhoda, with her head in the trunk.

"She has all sorts of odd fancies," continued Hudson, in a dry, painful tone; "sick people always do. You mustn't talk to her much—somehow it distresses her."

By this time Rhoda was quite speechless. Between grief and astonishment, she sniffled almost as dolefully as the poor little handmaiden below stairs.

Mr. Hudson went out, and Rhoda, having found the articles of clothing she required, returned to the chamber.

"I'm going to undress you," she said, softly; "you'll feel better when you get these heavy things off."

"I am so thirsty," pleaded the girl—"so thirsty."

"I'll make you some lemonade in a minute," said Rhoda; "I've got the lemons here."

She prepared the grateful beverage with the mingled speed and care which only a person who has a natural aptitude for nursing the sick can show. The girl drank it eagerly.

"Thank you," she said. "You are so good to me—so good!"

Rhoda could not trust her voice to answer; this gentleness in the woman she had known so haughty and imperious, touched her more than all the rest.

Before Hudson returned with the physician, Rhoda had her charge comfortably arrayed in a cool, fresh night-dress; and she lay there quiet and apparently free from pain.

The doctor left a prescription but said little—it was evident to his practiced eye what insidious disease had sapped her youth and strength so rapidly away. She was in the last stages of consumption; and he told Rhoda so when she crept out into the passage after him.

"She may live for weeks," he said; "and a few days may end her. I do not think she has strength to last long."

"And she went away so bright and beautiful," murmured Rhoda, through her tears. "It's dreadful—oh! it's dreadful!"

There was no comfort to offer, and the doctor was hurrying away; but Hudson came out, and called him back while Rhoda returned to the sick-room.