The perfectly white face of the child was upturned towards them, her eyes were closed, and deep black circles enclosed them, sunken in their sockets. The battle of life was almost over. The little gleam of brighter days was about to broaden into the full sunlight of the celestial abode, and a land of love was opening for the lonely heart.
“Phœbe, it is I, your friend, Miss Lane. Can you not speak to me?”
The heavy lids were lifted, and a ray from the dimming eyes rested upon the lady’s face, as she leaned over the miserable bed, the tears dropping silently.
“The doctor said he thought nothin’ wouldn’t rouse her, ma’am. She is nearly gone, for sure;” and the step-mother lifted her apron to her eyes.
The father, haggard from drink, yet with a certain expression of awe on his face, too, came in and stood on the other side of the bed.
With great gentleness, Miss Lane administered a cordial, and soon the deathlike look left Phœbe’s face a little. The fingers lying languidly in her friend’s palm closed in a slight pressure, and her lips moved in a whisper. The teacher put down her ear and caught the words, “The Holy Communion—send for Mr. Payne.”
In a moment the step-mother was hastening for the man of God.
“Father,” said Phœbe again, speaking with much difficulty; and the wretched man came nearer, so that his child’s eyes rested upon his face. “I am going to leave you—oh, be ready to meet me; promise:” and the solemn tones of her voice broke up the ice of wickedness and hardness about the man’s heart, till he wept.
There was a great stillness in the room again, and it was only broken by a low moan of pain from the dying child.
“Do you suffer, Phœbe?” asked Miss Lane.