"I have told her about the books," said Anna, turning from William to the rest. "I related to her as much as I could remember of 'Anna Ross:' that book which thee had in thy hand, William. She would so like to read them; she is always ill."
"Is she very ill?" inquired Mrs. Ashley.
"She is dying," replied Anna.
It was the first intimation William had received of the great fear. His countenance changed, his heart beat wildly. "Oh, Anna! who says it?" he cried out, in a low, wailing tone.
There was a dead silence. Anna's announcement sounded sufficiently startling, and Mrs. Ashley looked with sympathy at the evidently agitated boy.
"There! that's my tongue!" cried Anna repentantly. "Patience says she wonders some one does not cut it out for me."
Mary Ashley—a fair, gentle little girl, with large brown eyes, like Henry's—stepped forward, full of sympathy. "I have heard of your sister from Anna," she said. "She is welcome to read all my books; you can take some to her now, and change them as often as you like."
How pleased William was! Mary selected four, and gave them to him. "Anna Ross," "The Blind Farmer," "Theophilus and Sophia," and "Margaret White." Very old, some of the books, and childish; but admirably suited to what people were beginning to call Jane—a dying child.
"I say," cried out Henry, a little aristocratic patronage in his tone, as William was departing, "how do you get on with your Latin?"
"I get on very well. Not quite so fast as I should with a master. I have to puzzle out difficulties for myself, and I am not sure but that's one of the best ways to get on. I go on with my Greek, too; and Euclid, and——"