‘I was roused from my sleep in the middle of the night by a messenger from the vicarage. Little Walter had got the croup, and Mr. Morgan had been sent for into the country. I dressed myself hastily, and went through the quiet little street. There was a light burning upstairs at the vicarage. It was in the nursery. The servant, who opened the door the instant I knocked, was crying sadly, and could hardly answer my inquiries as I went upstairs, two steps at a time, to see my little favourite.

‘The nursery was a great large room. At the farther end it was lighted by a common candle, which left the other end, where the door was, in shade; so I suppose the nurse did not see me conic in, for she was speaking very crossly.

‘“Miss Sophy!” said she, “I told you over and over again it was not fit for him to go, with the hoarseness that he had; and you would take him. It will break your papa’s heart, I know; but it’s none of my doing.”

‘Whatever Sophy felt, she did not speak in answer to this. She was on her knees by the warm bath, in which the little fellow was struggling to get his breath, with a look of terror on his face that I have often noticed in young children when smitten by a sudden and violent illness. It seems as if they recognised something infinite and invisible, at whose bidding the pain and the anguish come, from which no love can shield them. It is a very heart-rending look to observe, because it comes on the faces of those who are too young to receive comfort from the words of faith, or the promises of religion. Walter had his arms tight round Sophy’s neck, as if she, hitherto his paradise-angel, could save him from the grave shadow of Death. Yes! of Death! I knelt down by him on the other side, and examined him. The very robustness of his little frame gave violence to the disease, which is always one of the most fearful by which children of his age can be attacked.

‘“Don’t tremble, Watty,” said Sophy, in a soothing tone; “it’s Mr. Harrison, darling, who let you ride on his horse.” I could detect the quivering in the voice, which she tried to make so calm and soft to quiet the little fellow’s fears. We took him out of the bath, and I went for leeches. While I was away, Mr. Morgan came. He loved the vicarage children as if he were their uncle; but he stood still and aghast at the sight of Walter — so lately bright and strong — and now hurrying along to the awful change — to the silent mysterious land, where, tended and cared for as he had been on earth, he must go — alone. The little fellow! the darling!

‘We applied the leeches to his throat. He resisted at first; but Sophy, God bless her! put the agony of her grief on one side, and thought only of him, and began to sing the little songs he loved. We were all still. The gardener had gone to fetch the Vicar; but he was twelve miles off and we doubted if he would come in time. I don’t know if they had any hope; but, the first moment Mr. Morgan’s eyes met mine, I saw that he, like me, had none. The ticking of the house clock sounded through the dark quiet house. Walter was sleeping now, with the black leeches yet hanging to his fair, white throat. Still Sophy went on singing little lullabies, which she had sung under far different and happier circumstances. I remember one verse, because it struck me at the time as strangely applicable.

‘“Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy rest shall angels keep;

While on the grass the lamb shall feed,

And never suffer want or need,

Sleep, baby sleep.”

The tears were in Mr. Morgan’s eyes. I do not think either he or I could have spoken in our natural tones; but the brave girl went on clear though low. She stopped at last, and looked up.

‘“He is better, is he not, Mr. Morgan?”

‘“No, my dear. He is — ahem” — he could not speak all at once. Then he said — “My dear! he will be better soon. Think of your mamma, my dear Miss Sophy. She will be very thankful to have one of her darlings safe with her, where she is.”

‘Still she did not cry. But she bent her head down on the little face, and kissed it long and tenderly.

‘“I will go for Helen and Lizzie. They will be sorry not to see him again.” She rose up and went for them. Poor girls, they came in, in their dressing-gowns, with eyes dilated with sudden emotion, pale with terror, stealing softly along, as if sound could disturb him. Sophy comforted them by gentle caresses. It was over soon.

‘Mr. Morgan was fairly crying like a child. But he thought it necessary to apologise to me, for what I honoured him for. “I am a little overdone by yesterday’s work, sir. I have had one or two bad nights, and they rather upset me. When I was your age I was as strong and manly as any one, and would have scorned to shed tears.”

‘Sophy came up to where we stood.

‘“Mr. Morgan! I am so sorry for papa. How shall I tell him?” She was struggling against her own grief for her father’s sake. Mr. Morgan offered to await his coming home; and she seemed thankful for the proposal. I, new friend, almost a stranger, might stay no longer. The street was as quiet as ever; not a shadow was changed; for it was not yet four o’clock. But during the night a soul had departed.

‘From all I could see, and all I could learn, the Vicar and his daughter strove which should comfort the other the most. Each thought of the other’s grief — each prayed for the other rather than for themselves. We saw them walking out, countrywards; and we heard of them in the cottages of the poor. But it was some time before I happened to meet either of them again. And then I felt, from something indescribable in their manner towards me, that I was one of the

“Peculiar people, whom Death had made dear.”

That one day at the old hall had done this. I was, perhaps, the last person who had given the poor little fellow any unusual pleasure. Poor Walter! I wish I could have done more to make his short life happy!