The sight of that poor, helpless man would have inspired marble with a spirit of prayer. I was upon my knees; his quivering hands were clasped in mine. I uplifted them to heaven with broken sobs—with tears and a burning eloquence with which no prayer for my own soul had ever yet ascended to heaven.
As I prayed, his hands were softly withdrawn from mine. I paused, and through the agony of my tears saw those poor fingers tremblingly clasp around each other, and uplift themselves. Broken words wavered on his lips. He seemed looking at something afar off in the dim shadows of the room.
“Chaleco!” I cried, in affright.
His hands fell apart and dropped slowly down, touching mine, like ice; his eyes, glazed and fireless, turned upon my face.
“Aurora! Aurora!”
Was it a prayer that Chaleco uttered when he gasped forth my mother’s name? I hope so. I believe so.
THE END.
Mrs. Stephens’ illustrated new monthly has now been established One Year, and the favorable impression with which it was at first received has not only been retained, but deepened. It is felt even to have exceeded the promises then made, and to have sensibly advanced in interest, beauty, and excellence.
It has now assumed a permanent position among American periodicals.