ing to you to hear.

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Now, then, who do you think is to marry the great banker in Babylon the Less? You know he is a great catch,' as the young ladies all say; not so young as he once was, and, inside, a man of lead; but, then, so heavily coated with gold!" And in this way Oliver rattled on for five minutes, changing the current of Lucy's thoughts; and it would have been hard to find a merrier group than those gathered around Lucy's chair.

CHAPTER LIV.

THE LAST DAYS OF LUCY.

NOTHING could be more tender than the care of our pilgrims of Lucy; nor was there ever a more grateful and affectionate invalid. Her chamber had become the centre of all attractions; and, even when company was below stairs, the largest half of the household, the babies being counted in, were to be found in Lucy's room.

It was sometimes so gay and happy there, that each wondered it could be so when in all hearts was the certainty that dear Lucy was fading, still fading out of sight. Lucy, with a deeper consciousness, was the first to enlist in the cheerfulness of the hour. And the hours grew more and more precious. The family circle were as constantly together with Lucy as the condition of her health would permit; and that was a disappointment, indeed,

which broke them up, either entirely, or at an earlier hour than was usual, in order that Lucy might have the quiet absolutely necessary for her present comfort.

Does this description of a sick room seem strange to any of our readers? To such we say,

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Sound, healthy children of the God of heaven

Are cheerful as the rising sun in May."

And we would ask, if the sadness of sickness, and the seclusion of sick chambers, would not be relieved by an imitation of the example of our pilgrims.

There had been a series of stormy days, the wind and rain pelting against the windows; and poor Lucy was kept in bed all the while the storm lasted. About noon of the fourth day the wind changed and the sun shone out. About four o'clock Lucy was up, dressed with more than usual care and beauty, for it was one of the little arts of love and tenderness never to give this feminine source of satisfaction. Her spirits were buoyant and happy, and her eyes shone with the splendors of departing life.

up

Frank and Oliver sat on ottomans at the side of her chair, holding their boys, while the young mothers were working upon some tiny caps of lace.

"Is not this glorious!" cried Lucy, holding up her arms with joyful enthusiasm, as she pointed to the azure depths, over which fleecy clouds, bathed in light, went sweeping before a brisk breeze from the north-west. "See there! see how those clouds

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assume new forms, and put on new tints of living light! O! how grand is this scene! and O, how glorious He

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns!'"

"Dear Lucy, don't fly out of the window!" cried Oliver. "I am not often so happy as now," continued Lucy. "My soul at this moment is volant; and I feel as if it would, indeed, be easy for me to fly. O, for wings!" added Lucy, with a smile.

Oliver put Oliver junior into her lap. "There, Lucy, take the boy as ballast, or else you will certainly fly out of the window."

Lucy took the favorite baby, and hugged him to her bosom. For a while he kept her busy, but when Oliver took him from her arms she once more became absorbed with the beauty of the sunset and of the clouds.

"Dear doctor, look! do we not see God's thoughts, his pencillings of beauty, or, more strictly, his modellings, in the very act of elimination, in every change in the clouds above us, now flying before our eyes? Yes, it must be so!"

"Now, let us hear how you make that out," said Oliver. " By what process of ratiocination do you stretch out your soul to such a height?”

“I did not know it was far-reaching to think so; but, now you ask me to tell you of the sequences of my reasonings, I am sure to fail: I won't attempt it. I know this, my intuitions are very strong, and I feel I must be right."

"Don't puzzle that brain of yours now, Lucy," said Frank, "but talk of something else."

"Is it not strange my father does not write me?” asked Lucy.

This was indeed falling from the zenith to the nadir. She could not have hit upon a more painful topie to her friends, who had been surprised at the time which had elapsed since her father had written to Lucy. to Lucy, and were wondering if she was aware of it. And it was apparent to them, now that it had come to mind, that it was presented to Lucy with a painful surprise. She said:

They had never remarked upon it

“I have thought of this before, but now I wake up to wonder what can have happened. I will write my father to-morrow." Lucy mused a while, and was busy with her thoughts; and her friends, seeing it, sat in silence. Looking up, she addressed Oliver.

"I think, doctor, my views of life to come have taken their hues from the gloom of my father's house. I have no sad emotions when I remember living with my mother in Hog Alley. We were poor, but very happy—I certainly was. Mother was usually serene, and her beautiful smile was always mine; but not so my father. He seemed to be forever thinking of my defective bringing up, and I felt forever distrait in his presence. I should have been dead long ago but for your love and sympathy."

Lucy wrote a few lines with a pencil to her father, expressing a wish to see him if he could conveniently come; and, if that could not be, to hear from him. Her letter was promptly replied to, in a business-like tone, beginning-"Dear Lucy, your favor of the 16th is duly received, &c." It stated that, in consequence of some heavy failures in the city, he felt

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himself compelled to remain, for the time being, at his bankinghouse; and, at the bottom of the half-page on which this was written, were the cabalistic characters, " Exch. Lon. 9 %."

Frank brought the letter in, and Lucy, having read it over twice, handed it to Frank, whose eye ran over it, and fixed itself on this remarkable postscript of a letter from a father to his sick child. His face flushed, and, if he had seen it some years before, he might have said something eminently brief concerning it; as it was, he rose, and, handing the letter to Lucy, retired. Lucy read the letter and re-read it. She saw the " P. S.," but could not decipher it. She gave the letter to Annie to read, and then to Gertrude, and asked them what that postscript meant. But it was all unknown to them, and she never knew that her father had deemed it a matter of interest to her to know that "Exchange on London was nine per cent." on the day he wrote her.

The decline of Lucy was gentle, but certain. She had no symptom of disease but loss of appetite and consequent debility, with a constant sense of wearisomeness. There were days when she ate with appetite, and then hope revived again. She was usually cheerful, but there were times when big tears would steal down, without any change of her features, or the expression of pain upon her beautiful face.

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Why do you weep, my dear Lucy?" asked Gertrude, as she came into the chamber and found big tears resting upon her cheeks.

She replied: "I weep oftentimes from excess of feeling, but nothing of pain: not because I repine-not because I suffer. No; my soul seems released from the body, and I wander far away to distant worlds in a dreamy state, and the most delightful