DEAD.

There was no hope, Hudson knew that from the first. The physician only confirmed this mournful conviction.

For three days and nights Mr. Hudson and Rhoda watched by the poor girl's bed, for she never sat up again. She did not suffer much pain, except when the regular paroxysms of coughing seized her; and the powerful opiates which were administered caused her to lie quiet and half dreaming the greater portion of the time.

When they spoke to her, she would rouse herself for a brief space, trying to smile, thanking them for every little service they rendered her; and sometimes Rhoda would hear her praying in broken whispers—always prayers of resignation and faith.

Mr. Hudson's distress was so poignant that more than once he was obliged to leave the room; the girl perceived it, and, for a little, her composure would be so disturbed that agitation brought back the racking cough and sharp pain that were wearing her life so rapidly away.

"Don't let him grieve," she said, to Rhoda. "Tell him I'm very happy—very happy; I only grieve at leaving him. Good Rhoda! God will bless you, Rhoda!"

It was the close of the third day; Rhoda was sitting by her patient, and Mr. Hudson had thrown himself on a sofa in the next room, quite broken down by trouble and long watching. The sick girl had been lying silent and motionless for long time; Rhoda could see that she slept at intervals, and that a peaceful smile beamed over her face, as if, in her dreams, some kind angel brought a vision of the peace which awaited her.

She woke with a start, opened her eyes, glanced vaguely about. Her look fell upon Rhoda.

"Did you hear it?" she whispered.

"What?" Rhoda asked, gently.

"The music—such beautiful music! Hark! I hear it yet! Listen!"

She lifted one hand; the large eyes grew eager and wistful, brightening with a glory which was not of this world.

A great awe stole over Rhoda; she knew what this change meant; the girl was dying.

"Don't you hear?" she repeated.

Rhoda could not answer, her voice was choked with tears. She knew that it was the low, sad strains from Luke's violin that the dying girl heard.

"I know!" the girl murmured, "it is not that, but something beyond. I am dying! Don't cry—I'm not afraid! Call him, Rhoda. The music yet—the music!"

Rhoda bent over her and kissed her forehead, with tender awe. Those pale lips moved and she heard that voice, grown supernaturally low, repeating.

"The Lord is my shepherd! He leadeth me in green pastures! He maketh me to lie down beside the still waters!"

Rhoda stole softly out into the outer chamber, where Hudson lay asleep, upon the lounge. She laid her hand on his shoulder; her touch roused him at once.

"Is she worse?" he cried, staggering to his feet.

Rhoda could not answer; one look in her face was enough—he knew that the end had come, and hurried into the chamber; Rhoda followed, and dropped on her knees at the foot of the bed.

"My darling! Oh, my darling!" Rhoda heard him exclaim.

The dying girl turned her eyes on his face, and she struggled hard for words. "Don't grieve—I'm going; take me in your arms."

He sat down on the side of the bed and lifted her to his bosom, while the couch shook under the violent emotion he could no longer repress.

"Don't cry, don't! Put your arms close around me! It's only for a little while—we shall meet yonder!"

The struggles of that sweet voice died away; there was a heavy breath, and her head fell upon his shoulder.

Rhoda rose from her knees and went up to the suffering man.

"Don't! oh, don't! Maybe she sees, and is troubled by it. The angels are taking care of her now. Mother will be among them, for she knows I'm here."