kerchief which I still held, and hurried to the nursery. I knew what it meant. Poor Baby's tea-party on the beach might cost her dear. Her little white dress I knew had felt damp, when I had put her in the cart with the colonel. Over it, she had had but a light flannel sack, which we had taken her out in at noonday. Of course her shoes must have been wet, for she had been playing close down by the waves all the afternoon. Against my self-accusations I had to put the fact that she had gone through the same exposure many times before, without any apparent ill result. I had grown careless because the children had been so steadily well all summer. I was tortured with the recollection of her, so bright and eager, in Macnally's arms, leaning down to put the last stick on the fire, before she was sent home. Her little white dress and red sack, and bare kicking legs, with short stockings crumpled down over the tops of her shoes, had made such a pretty, droll picture in the firelight. Then he had tossed her above his head, and carried her on his shoulder to put her in the cart beside the colonel. Pretty Baby! that was only three or four hours ago, and here she lay, fevered, restless, choked by this fierce, destroying malady.

"Sophia," I whispered in terror, catching her arm, for she was sitting by the bed, "tell me if you think she will get over it—”

"You won't deserve it if she does," she muttered, shaking off my hand.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE.

"Oh, that the year were ever vernal,

And lovers' youthful dreams eternal!"

Song of the Bell.

“But all things carry the heart's messages,

And know it not, nor doth the heart well know,

But Nature hath her will;

Lowell.

I

DID not take off my clothes that night, nor did

Sophia. What made our watch the more anxious, was the fact that we were alone in the house. The Indian woman, who was our cook and general servant, had many calls from her family and her tribe, and was continually asking leave to be away for a night or for a day or two. The day before, she had gone, to be away two nights and a day. We had felt always very secure and comfortable, but this sudden visitation of illness showed us how unsafe it was. Sophia was very well skilled in the care of this disease. Baby had had several attacks, more or less severe, during her little life. She knew what remedies to apply, and had the nerve to wait calmly for their effect. I was unnerved and terrified, and begged her to go and get a doctor. None lived near us; it would have been madness for her to leave the child and go out at midnight for one. And as for me, I could scarcely have brought myself tc

quit the sight of the suffering little face. I obeyed her orders as calmly as I could, and submitted to give up the doctor.

Before day-break, the child was much relieved. When it was light enough, Sophia went away for the doctor, leaving me with many charges what to do and what to avoid doing. She looked back uneasily more than once, as if she scarcely dared trust the child with me alone. I couldn't blame her; I was in agonies of self-reproach.

The remedies that she had applied seemed to have been all-sufficient. The doctor added nothing to what had been already effected. The morning was cloudy, and finally rainy. By noon the Baby seemed as well as ever, sitting up in her crib, and domineering over us all. I was not allowed to feel easy about her, for both the doctor and Sophia predicted a return of the trouble after night-fall. It was a wretched day. I could not eat, and even the watch of the night just past failed to make me want to sleep. I could not bring myself to leave the nursery, nor to take my eyes off poor Baby. When I heard voices below, I shut the door, and sent Maidy to tell whoever had come that Baby was ill, and I couldn't leave her.

The rain pelted steadily all the afternoon against the window panes; night gathered outside, and with it thickened my gloomy apprehensions. This time we were not alone. An Irishwoman, who lived in a lonely shanty a mile or two away, often came to us to supplement the Shinnecock; she had the reputation of being half crazed, but we had always found her industrious and faithful. She was persuaded, after her day's work was over, to stay with us all night, and be ready to go

room.

for the doctor, or render any assistance outside the I do not think she slept much, though she was given a bed in the garret. I heard her moving about at intervals all night, and. once when I went down into the kitchen for hot water, I found her there, muttering to herself, as usual.

"Ann Day's got more sense than half the people that think they've got their wits," Sophia always said.

The night, which had begun with such gloom and apprehension, wore on to midnight, and then to dawn, and still Baby slept peacefully. When the faint light of day crept into the eastern window, and I felt the cool moisture on her little forehead, and listened to the even breath that passed her parted lips, I almost cried for joy, and for relief from terror. Sophia had acted all night as if another attack were inevitable, and now the day had come, and she was well. I threw myself on the bed beside her, and, worn out by my two nights of watching, fell asleep.

When I awoke it was broad day; Maidy was dressed, and eating her breakfast by the window; Baby was sitting up in her crib, unnumbered toys before her; Sophia was tidying up the room, not in the quietest mån

ner.

Maidy ran to kiss me: "Mamma, we have made all sorts of noises and you wouldn't wake."

I took her in my arms and kissed her, and leaned over to kiss Baby. The past hours of dread seemed to me all like a black nightmare. Had there ever been a danger that I should lose one of these, my treasures? But in the rebound I did not lose the consciousness of what I had resolved, and promised to myself ever to keep before me. Baby, with an unwonted tenderness, laid

her soft cheek against mine, as I leaned over the rail of the crib. Maidy patted Baby's chestnut curls, and then smoothed my disordered hair. disordered hair. "My pretty mamma," she said, putting an arm around my neck. "My pretty babies," I murmured, holding them in one close embrace.

"Come to your breakfast, Maidy," said Sophia, in a sharp key. "These things can't be kept about all day."

I kissed her again, and she slid down from the bed, and went submissively to her bowl of bread and milk. She looked back at us rather wistfully, however. Sophia did not quite dare to send me away, but she threw dark glances towards me, as I sat on the bed, leaning over Baby's crib, and playing with her. I can't say Sophia felt defeated; that would be saying a harsh thing, for she loved Baby most devotedly. But she felt as if my punishment had been a petty farce, compared with my deserts; I had been let off too light by fate. She had grown so jealous, I think she was jealous of the favor that she thought I seemed to have found with Heaven.

I could afford to be magnanimous; so I got up soon, not to annoy her further, and went away to dress myself. The weather outside was dull and gray. The storm had subsided in the night; the wind had dried the earth a good deal, but now it had fallen, and a silence brooded, and a sullen sky frowned overhead; it was anything but joyful, but my heart was so eased I did not feel it.

Later in the morning, Sophia put Baby to sleep in her crib, turning me and Maidy out of the nursery. We went into my sleeping-room, which was in the rear of the parlor, and I sat by the window with some work,