The Old Homestead. Ann S. Stephens

Whoever mounted those stairs, moved with a staggering, unsteady walk, like that of a drunken person.

      Mary turned very pale and hardly breathed.

      "Oh, if it should be mother," she thought, casting a startled look back into the little room, "staggering, too!" and trembling with affright, she stole softly to the top of the stairs and looked down.

      A gush of welcome broke from her lips. She held out her arms, descending rapidly to meet him.

      "Father! oh, my blessed, blessed father!"

      They came up slowly, the deathly pale man leaning partly on his stick, partly on the shoulder of the child, whose frame shivered with joy beneath his pressure, and whose eyes, beaming with affection, were uplifted to his.

      "Not here, don't sit down here," she cried, resisting his impulse to rest at the head of the stairs. "I have got a fire—the room is warm—just five steps more—don't stop till then!"

      He moved on, attempting to smile, though his lips were blue and his emaciated limbs shivered painfully.

      "There, sit down, father: I borrowed this rocking-chair of Mrs. Ford; isn't it nice? Let me put the pillow behind your head. Are you very sick, father?"

      His lips quivered out, "Yes, very!"

      She stooped down and kissed his forehead, then knelt by his side and kissed his hands, also, with such reverential affection.

      "Oh, father, father, how sorry I am; you will stay with us—you will stay at home now—they have let you grow worse at the hospital; but I—your own little girl—see if I don't make you well. You will not go to Bellevue again, father."

      "No, I shall never go back again; the doctors can do nothing for me, but I could not die without seeing you again—that wish was stronger than death."

      "Oh, father, don't."

      The sick man looked down upon her with his glittering eyes, and a pathetic smile stole over his lips. An ague chill seized upon him, and ran in a shiver through his limbs; but it had no power to quench that smile of ineffable affection—that solemn, sweet smile, that said more softly than words—

      "Yes, my child, your father must die here in his poverty-stricken home."

      "No, no!" cried Mary, in fond affright; for the look affected her more than his words; "it is only the cold, your clothes are so thin, dear father—it is only the cold; a good warm cup of tea will drive it off. Here is the kettle, boiling hot; besides, you are hungry—ah, I thought of that; here are crackers and a dear little sponge-cake, and such nice bread and butter; of course, it's only the cold and the hunger. I always feel as if I should die the next minute, when we've gone without anything to eat a day or two; nothing is so discouraging as that."

      She ran on thus, striving to cheat her own aching heart, while she cheered the sick man. As if activity would drive away her fear, she bustled about, put her tea to drawing by the stove, spread the little table, and pulled it close to her father, and strove, by a thousand sweet caressing ways, to entice him into an appetite. The sick man only glanced at the food with a weary smile; but seizing upon the warm cup of tea, drank it off eagerly, asking for more.

      This was some consolation to the little nurse; and she stood by, watching him wistfully through her tears, as he drained the second cup. It checked the shivering fit somewhat, and he sat upwright a moment, casting his bright eyes around the room.

      "Isn't it nice and warm?" said Mary, as he leaned back.

      The sick man murmured softly—

      "Yes, child, it feels like home. God bless you. But your mother—did she help to do this?"

      Mary's countenance fell. She shrunk away from the glance of those bright, questioning eyes.

      "Mother has not been home in five or six days," she said, gently.

      The sick man turned his head and closed his eyes. Directly, Mary saw two great tears press through the quivering lashes, followed by a faint gasping for breath.

      "I have prayed—I have so hoped to see her before"—

      He broke off; and Mary could see, by the glow upon his face, that he was praying then.

      She knelt down, reverently, and leaned her forehead upon the arm of his chair.

      After a little, Fuller opened his eyes, and lifting one pale hand from his knee, laid it on his child's shoulder.

      "Mary!"

      She looked up and smiled. There was something so loving and holy in his face, that the child could not help smiling, even through her tears.

      "Mary, listen to me while I can speak, for in a little while I shall be gone."

      "Not to the hospital again—oh, not there!"

      "No, Mary, not there; but look up—be strong, my child, you know what death is!"

      "Oh, yes," whispered the child with a shudder.

      "Hush, Mary, hush—don't shake so—I must die, very, very soon, I feel," he added, looking at his fingers and dropping them gently back to her shoulder; "I feel now that it is very nigh, this death which makes you tremble so."

      Mary broke forth into a low, wailing sob.

      "Hush! stop crying, Mary; look up!"

      Mary lifted her eyes, filled with touching awe, and choked back the agony of her grief.

      "Father, I listen."

      Oh, the holy love with which those eyes looked down into hers!

      "Have you read the Bible that I left behind for you?"

      "Yes, father; oh, yes, morning and night."

      "Then, you know that the good meet again, after death?"

      "But I—I am not good. Oh, father, father, I cannot make myself good enough to see you again; you will go, and I shall be left behind—I and mother!—I and mother!"

      "Have you been patient with your mother—respectful to her?" he asked, sadly.

      "There—there it is. I have tried and tried, but when she strikes me, or brings those people here, or comes home with that horrible bottle under her shawl, I cannot be respectful—I get angry and long to hide away when she comes up stairs."

      "Hush, my child, hush; these are wicked words!"

      "I know it, father; it seems to me as if no one ever was so wicked—try ever so much, I cannot be good. I thought when you came"—

      "Well, my child."

      "I thought that you would tell me how, and you talk of—. Don't, father, don't; I want you so much."

      "It is God who takes me," said Fuller, gently; "He will teach you how to be good."

      "Oh, but it takes so long; I have asked and asked so often."

      Again that beautiful smile beamed over the dying man's face.

      "He will hear you—He has heard you—I felt that you had need of me, and came; see how God has answered your want in this, my child!"

      "But I can do nothing alone; when you are with me, I feel strong; but if you leave me, what can I do?"

      "Pray without ceasing; and in everything give thanks," said that faint gentle voice once more.

      "But I have prayed till my heart seemed full of tears."

      "They were sweet tears, Mary."

      "No, no; my heart grew heavy with them; and—mother, how could I give thanks when she came home so—!"

      "Hush, hush, Mary—it is your mother!"

      "But I can't give thanks for that, when I remember how she let you suffer—how miserable everything was—how she left you to starve, day by