"Sit on the bed and let me rest my head on your lap." Seating herself on the bed, Mrs.Wentworth lifted the body of the dying child in her arms, and pillowed her head on her breast.

The old negro was standing at the foot of the bed, looking on quietly, while the tears poured down her aged cheeks.

Mrs.Wentworth's little son climbed on the bed, and gazed in wonder at the sad aspect of his mother, and the dying features of his sister.
"Mother," said the child, "I am going to Heaven, say a prayer for me." She essayed to pray, but could not, her lips moved, but utterance was denied to her.
"I cannot pray, darling," she replied, "prayer is denied to me." The child asked no more, for she saw her mother's inability to comply with her wishes.
The little group remained in the same position until the setting sun gleamed through the window, and shed a bright ray across the bed.

Not a sound was heard, save the ticking of the old fashioned clock on the mantle piece, as its hands slowly marked the fleeting minutes.

The eyes of the dying child had been closed at the time, but as the sunlight shot across her face she opened them, and looked up into her mother's face.
"Open the window, granny," she said.
The old woman opened it, and as she did so, the round red glare of the sun was revealed, while the aroma of thousands wild flowers that grew beneath the window, entered the room, and floated its perfume on the autumn air.
"Mother," said the dying child.
Mrs.Wentworth looked down upon her child.
"What is it darling," she asked.
"Let brother kiss me," she requested.
Her little brother was lifted up and held over her.