It now wanted only three days of the New Year, when a sudden and deadly shadow fell on the dwelling, late so busy and joyous—a shadow from the grave; and it fell on the flower of the garden—the star—the singing bird—the loved and loving Ally.
She was stricken down at once, in the flush of her innocent enjoyment, by a fever, which from the first was ushered in with symptoms the most fearful.
All the bustle of preparation ceased—the presents were forgotten or lay about unfinished, as if no one now had a heart to put their hand to any thing; while up in her little crib lay the beloved one, tossing and burning with restless fever, and without power to recognize any of the loved faces that bent over her.
The doctor came twice a day, with a heavy step, and a face in which anxious care was too plainly written; and while he was there each member of the circle hung with anxious, imploring faces about him, as if to entreat him to save their darling; but still the deadly disease held on its relentless course, in spite of all that could be done.
"I thought myself prepared to meet God's will in any form it might come," said Winthrop to me; "but this one thing I had forgotten. It never entered into my head that my little Ally could die."
The evening before New Year's, the deadly disease seemed to be progressing more rapidly than ever; and when the doctor came for his evening call, he found all the family gathered in mournful stillness around the little crib.
"I suppose," said the father, with an effort to speak calmly, "that this may be her last night with us."
The doctor made no answer, and the whole circle of brothers and sisters broke out into bitter weeping.
"It is just possible that she may live till to-morrow," said the doctor.
"To-morrow—her birthday!" said the mother. "O Ally, Ally!"