care in it that was pitiable to see; and yet, with all this, it was so calm and still, so composed, that any one would have imagined that her one thought was how to nurse her patient. And so it was. Madge felt that a great deal depended upon her fortitude and self-control. Had she lost this, she could not have attended upon Raymond; and though she was only a weak little girl in herself, God gave her the strength she needed. She did not spend her time in idly fretting, or in gloomy thoughts about the future; she just did the duties that came in her way, one by one, and left the rest trustfully to God.

One glance was sufficient to show Mr. Smith how ill the boy was. The wildness of the fever was past, and he had sunk into a state of almost complete lethargy.

"Madge," said the artist, "I came to see why you had not come again to me."

Madge only pointed to Raymond's sharpened features resting on the pillow; it was excuse enough.

"He is very ill," said Mr. Smith. "I never saw any one looking more ill."

"Mrs. Smiley says he is dying," said Madge in a low tone of forced calm; and she repeated the last words sadly to herself, "dying, O Raymond!"

"When was the doctor here?"

"We have had no doctor, sir."

"Why not? That has not been wise, Madge."