Ishmael; Or, In the Depths. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

in the dying by the rising and falling of the waves of life when the tide is ebbing away. The beautiful eyes did not close, but rolled themselves up under their lids; the sweet lips fell apart, and the pearly teeth grew dry.

      Old Mrs. Jones, who had been busy with a saucepan over the fire, now approached the bedside, saying:

      "Is she 'sleep?"

      "I do not know. Look at her, and see if she is," replied the weeping sister.

      "Well, I can't tell," said the nurse, after a close examination.

      And neither could Hippocrates, if he had been there.

      "Do you think she can possibly live?" sobbed Hannah.

      "Well—I hope so, honey. Law, I've seen 'em as low as that come round again. Now lay the baby down, Hannah Worth, and come away to the window; I want to talk to you without the risk of disturbing her."

      Hannah deposited the baby by its mother's side and followed the nurse.

      "Now you know, Hannah, you must not think as I'm a hard-hearted ole 'oman; but you see I must go."

      "Go! oh, no! don't leave Nora in her low state! I have so little experience in these cases, you know. Stay with her! I will pay you well, if I am poor."

      "Child, it aint the fear of losin' of the pay; I'm sure you're welcome to all I've done for you."

      "Then do stay! It seems indeed that Providence himself sent you to us last night! What on earth should we have done without you! It was really the Lord that sent you to us."

      "'Pears to me it was Old Nick! I know one thing: I shouldn't a-come if I had known what an adventur' I was a-goin' to have," mumbled the old woman to herself.

      Hannah, who had not heard her words, spoke again:

      "You'll stay?"

      "Now, look here, Hannah Worth, I'm a poor old lady, with nothing but my character and my profession; and if I was to stay here and nuss Nora Worth, I should jes' lose both on 'em, and sarve me right, too! What call have I to fly in the face of society?"

      Hannah made no answer, but went and reached a cracked tea-pot from the top shelf of the dresser, took from it six dollars and a half, which was all her fortune, and came and put it in the hand of the nurse, saying:

      "Here! take this as your fee for your last night's work and go, and never let me see your face again if you can help it."

      "Now, Hannah Worth, don't you be unreasonable—now, don't ye; drat the money, child; I can live without it, I reckon; though I can't live without my character and my perfession; here, take it, child—you may want it bad afore all's done; and I'm sure I would stay and take care of the poor gal if I dared; but now you know yourself, Hannah, that if I was to do so, I should be a ruinated old 'oman; for there ain't a respectable lady in the world as would ever employ me again."

      "But I tell you that Nora is as innocent as her own babe; and her character shall be cleared before the day is out!" exclaimed Hannah, tears of rage and shame welling to her eyes.

      "Yes, honey, I dessay; and when it's done I'll come back and nuss her—for nothing, too," replied the old woman dryly, as she put on her bonnet and shawl.

      This done she returned to the side of Hannah.

      "Now, you know I have told you everything what to do for Nora; and by-and-by, I suppose, old Dinah will come, as old Jovial promised; and maybe she'll stay and 'tend to the gal and the child; 'twon't hurt her, you know, 'cause niggers aint mostly got much character to lose. There, child, take up your money; I wouldn't take it from you, no more'n I'd pick a pocket. Good-by."

      Hannah would have thrown the money after the dame as she left the hut, but that Nora's dulcet tones recalled her:

      "Hannah, don't!"

      She hurried to the patient's bedside; there was another rising of the waves of life; Nora's face, so dark and rigid a moment before, was now again soft and luminous.

      "What is it, sister?" inquired Hannah, bending over her.

      "Don't be angry with her, dear; she did all she could for us, you know, without injuring herself—and we had no right to expect that."

      "But—her cruel words!"

      "Dear Hannah, never mind; when you are hurt by such, remember our Saviour; think of the indignities that were heaped upon the Son of God; and how meekly he bore them, and how freely he forgave them."

      "Nora, dear, you do not talk like yourself."

      "Because I am dying, Hannah. My boy came in with the rising sun, and I shall go out with its setting."

      "No, no, my darling—you are much better than you were. I do not see why you should die!" wept Hannah.

      "But I do; I am not better, Hannah—I have only floated back. I am always floating backward and forward, towards life and towards death; only every time I float towards death I go farther away, and I shall float out with the day."

      Hannah was too much moved to trust herself to speak.

      "Sister," said Nora, in a fainter voice, "I have one last wish."

      "What is it, my own darling?"

      "To see poor, poor Herman once more before I die."

      "To forgive him! Yes, I suppose that will be right, though very hard," sighed the elder girl.

      "No, not to forgive him, Hannah—for he has never willingly injured me, poor boy; but to lay my hand upon his head, and look into his eyes, and assure him with my dying breath that I know he was not to blame; for I do know it, Hannah."

      "Oh, Nora, what faith!" cried the sister.

      The dying girl, who, to use her own words, was floating away again, scarcely heard this exclamation, for she murmured on in a lower tone, like the receding voice of the wind:

      "For if I do not have a chance of saying this to him, Hannah—if he is left to suppose I went down to the grave believing him to be treacherous—it will utterly break his heart, Hannah; for I know him, poor fellow—he is as sensitive as—as—any——." She was gone again out of reach.

      Hannah watched the change that slowly grew over her beautiful face: saw the grayness of death creep over it—saw its muscles stiffen into stone—saw the lovely eyeballs roll upward out of sight—and the sweet lips drawn away from the glistening teeth.

      While she thus watched she heard a sound behind her. She turned in time to see the door pushed open, and Herman Brudenell—pale, wild, haggard, with matted hair, and blood-shot eyes, and shuddering frame—totter into the room.

CHAPTER XII.

       Table of Contents

      HERMAN'S STORY.

      Thus lived—thus died she; never more on her

       Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made,

       Through years of moons, the inner weight to bear,

       Which colder hearts endure 'til they are laid

       By age in earth: her days and pleasures were

       Brief but delightful—such as had not stayed

       Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well

       By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.

       —Byron.

      Hannah arose, met the intruder, took his hand, led him to the bed of death and silently pointed to the ghastly form of Nora.

      He gazed with horror on the sunken features, gray complexion, upturned eyes, and parted lips of the once beautiful girl.

      "Hannah,