A bouquet of choice flowers shed a delightful fragrance. They are the gift of the child.
"This is too sad a place for such innocence," murmurs the invalid, taking the bouquet and pressing it to his lips.
"Lalia is accustomed to such scenes, Mr. Arnold, I take her with me on my daily rounds, that she may see the sorrows of humanity, and I trust she will never grow so selfish as not to feel for them too."
"May you receive the greatest reward," cried the wretched Evelyn.
"Ah! much promise is in store for your child."
The little one glided toward the speaker, and putting the tiny white arms around her neck, impressed a warm kiss upon the quivering lips.
"Good-bye, Lalia! When you grow to be a woman wear this for my sake," and Montague Arnold took from his finger an old-fashioned ring—the gift of his dying mother.
The child looked at the precious relic, as if it were too sacred to touch. Then spoke her thanks through the soft dreamy eyes— beautiful as an Italian sky.
"Good-bye, Lalia," and the child went forth with a sadness prophetic that from these icy lips those words were the last she would ever hear.
And the child was right. On the following day as the sun was sinking in the west, Montague Arnold was sinking into his last slumber.
Respiration became difficult, and his words were almost inaudible. As his wife knelt beside him, and clasped the cold hands within her own, she tried hard to appear calm.