Several years had passed, bringing to the members of our little family scarce any changes except such as time brings to the young and growing everywhere. Ethel was more mature in looks and manners, Harry becoming quite manly in appearance, and in character also, the two younger girls were budding into lovely womanhood, Nannette being especially winsome in manner. They were all strongly attached to each other and made a very harmonious and happy little household.

But a change came: Nan took cold in the spring, and all through the summer was feeble and more or less ailing.

The others were troubled and anxious about her, but she was almost always cheerful, said there was not much the matter, she only felt languid and weak, but hoped to be strong and have more energy when the cool autumn weather came. But alas! instead, her feebleness increased till at last she was forced to take to her bed. Then Ethel, greatly alarmed, at once let her uncles know, and without delay the best medical advice was furnished and everything done that loving care and solicitude could do to improve her condition. She grew a little better for a time, so that she was able to be about the house again, but never went out except when one of her uncles or cousins took her for a drive as they sometimes did.

They were very kind and affectionate, coming often to see her, even when the weather was such that she could not be taken out. Dorothy was frequently there too, sometimes in the capacity of nurse, when business or domestic cares kept Nannette’s sisters away from the sick room, and showing herself very kind, thoughtful, and skilful.

Miss Seldon did likewise, evidently feeling deep interest in the young invalid; bringing dainties to tempt the failing appetite, and interesting books to make the time pass pleasantly.

Their pastor came too, and by his sympathy and kindness endeared himself greatly to the little family. He succeeded at length in so winning Nan’s love and confidence that she became very open and communicative with him; talking freely of her thoughts, feelings, and desires, her hopes and aspirations; and very gently and tenderly he, after a time, told her that her physicians thought it very unlikely she would ever be restored to health in this world, but was slowly and surely nearing that blessed land where the inhabitants shall never say “I am sick”; the land where pain and sickness, death, sin, and sorrow are unknown.

It was a new idea to Nannette, for she had looked confidently forward to final restoration to health, and for some moments she seemed stunned with surprise and affright.

“Do not be afraid, dear child,” said the minister in tones tremulous with emotion; “remember those sweet words of the psalmist, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.’ Trust in Jesus—Jesus only—and He will be with you, and carry you safely through the valley, and over the river of death, to the beautiful Celestial city, where you will dwell with Him in such bliss as eye hath not seen nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive.”

“And where my dear father and mother are,” she said softly, the big tears coursing down her cheeks. “Oh, I shall not be sorry to go! How good; oh, how good the Lord is to let me go there so soon!”

“Yes, dear child. Is it because He sees any good in you, do you think?”

“No, sir; oh, no, there isn’t any, not any of my own righteousness: but I think, I believe, oh, I know that He has covered me with the beautiful robe of His perfect righteousness, so that when God looks upon me He will see only that and none of the filthy rags of my own. And He will wash away in His precious blood all my sins, all the evil that is in me, and make me fit for a home in that blessed land. With Jesus and like him! Oh, how happy I shall be!” Then after a moment’s pause, “Do my brother and sisters know?” she asked.

“I think not,” he said, “though doubtless they will not be greatly surprised to learn the truth in regard to your serious condition.”

“Then tell them; please tell them,” she entreated; “Ethel and Blanche at least, and perhaps they will tell Harry when he comes home from the store to-night.”

Just then footsteps were heard on the stairs, the door opened, and Dorothy entered.

“How do you do, sir?” she said, holding out her hand to the minister, then turning toward Nannette, “Ah, little coz, you are better, I think! Your cheeks are like roses and your eyes are very bright. What is it, dear?” as the beautiful eyes filled with tears, “are you in pain?” and she bent over her, softly caressing her hair and cheek.

The minister had slipped away unobserved. Nannette put an arm round Dorothy and drew her down closer. “I—I know it now,” she panted. “He has told me, and—and oh, I—I’m afraid Ethel’s heart will break, for—for she loves me so dearly!”

“What is it, dear? You haven’t told me yet,” returned Dorothy in half tremulous tones. “You—you are not worse?”

“I shall never be any better,” faltered Nannette; “never till—till I reach that land where the inhabitants shall not say ‘I am sick.’”

“O Nan, you don’t know! I—I think you are getting better,” Dorothy returned, tears streaming from her eyes. “And how could we ever do without you? I have grown to love you very, very dearly since I have been with you so much, seeing how dear and good and patient you are in all your pain and weakness. Cheer up, for I do think you will be stronger when the warm weather comes.”

But Nannette shook her head. “No,” she said, “the doctors say I will not be here long; that I am going home to heaven to be with Jesus and the dear father and mother who went so long ago. O Dorothy, though the news was like a shock at first, I am very glad now, if—if only I did not have to leave Ethel and Blanche behind; Harry too, and you and my uncles and cousins. Oh, how sweet it would be if we could only all go together!”

“O Nan,” cried Dorothy, weeping, “I can’t help hoping the doctors are mistaken; you know they sometimes are, and perhaps you will get well yet. I’ll tell Uncle George, and perhaps he will take you south to Florida or the West Indies. I think it would do him good to go himself, for he has a cough of late.”

“You are very kind, Dorothy,” Nan said with a grateful look up into her eyes, “and so are my uncles. I believe they would do anything in their power to save my life; but I fear it is too late, and if I am to die I’d rather die here at home with all the dear ones about me.”

“But, O Nan, we can’t go with you!” exclaimed a voice half choked with grief; “and how can we let you go alone!” for Ethel had come in unperceived and dropped on her knees close by the bedside. “Oh, my darling, darling little sister, what can I ever do without you? You have been my special charge almost ever since you were born. I don’t know how I can live if you are taken from me!”

“You know the others will need you, dear,” said Nan, clinging about her neck, “and papa and mamma and I will be waiting for you all on the other side of the river; and oh, what a happy time it will be when we are all there together!”

“But oh, darling, it seems so long to wait!” groaned Ethel, holding her close, and weeping as if her heart would break; “so long to live without you!”

“Maybe it won’t be so long; perhaps He will soon let you follow me.”

“When her work for Him on earth is done,” said Dorothy, weeping with them. “But, Ethel, dear, you know He never sends a burden without the strength to bear it. Don’t forget the sweet promise, ‘As thy days, so shall thy strength be,’ or the sweet assurance, ‘We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’”

“Oh, it is so easy to forget!” sighed Ethel. “I am glad you reminded me. I have need to pray as the disciples did, ‘Lord, increase our faith.’”

A moment’s silence, while the sisters, closely clasped in each other’s arms, mingled their tears together, then Ethel asked, low and tremulously, “Nan, dear, you are not afraid?”

“No, sister, dear, for though you can’t go with me, Jesus has said that He will. Don’t you remember those lovely texts in Isaiah, ‘But now thus saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.’ I was reading those verses only this morning, and they seemed so sweet.”

“They are for us both,” sobbed Ethel; “for when I think of parting with you, my darling little sister, doing without you all the rest of my life—the waters seem very, very deep, the floods overflow me. Oh, what should I do if I had not Jesus to cling to?”

“‘And a man shall be as a hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest,’” repeated Nan in low, tender tones; “‘as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.’ I know it means Jesus, and if we cling close to him he will be all that to us.”

“Yes; oh, yes! and you are clinging to him, Nan, dear?”

“Yes; oh, yes! I have no other refuge; and what other need anyone want? for ‘He is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.’ You remember that Jesus said, ‘And this is the will of Him that sent me, that everyone which seeth the Son and believeth on Him, may have everlasting life: and I will raise him up at the last day.’ I believe; oh, I have not the least doubt that Jesus is God, that He is able and willing to save, for He invites all to come to Him for salvation—‘Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.’ ‘Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ I know I cannot do anything to deserve salvation—that all my righteousness is as filthy rags; but He has offered me His, and I have accepted it, so that now it is mine and I feel the truth of what the Bible says, ‘And the work of righteousness shall be peace; and the effect of righteousness, quietness and assurance forever.’ Oh, I am full of joy at the thought that I am so soon to be with Jesus and to be like Him.”

“Yes, I am glad for you, dear Nan,” Ethel said, amid her fast falling tears, “but my heart is almost broken for myself and our brother and sister; for we all love you so dearly that it will be terrible for us to see you go.”

“Should we not let her rest now?” asked Dorothy gently. “She is looking very weary.”

“Yes, I fear I have talked too long,” returned Ethel, with an anxious look at the face on the pillow, “and it is time she had something to eat,” and with that she left the room.

She found Harry seated in the little parlor below, looking over the evening paper.

“How is Nan?” he asked, glancing up at her as she entered. Then noticing that she had been weeping, “O Ethel, is she worse?”

At first Ethel answered only with tears and sobs; then in low, tremulous tones she said, “She is nearing home, Harry. The doctors say she can be with us only—a little longer—a few weeks or—perhaps but a few days.”

Harry had dropped his paper, and tears were coursing down his cheeks. “I don’t believe it! Dear little Nan! we can’t let her die. What could we ever do without her? something must be done to save her.”

Blanche had come in just in time to hear Harry’s last words, and was standing as if struck dumb with astonishment and dismay. “What is it? oh, what is it?” she asked wildly. “Nan can’t be so very ill with that lovely color in her cheeks and her eyes so bright. Oh, I’m sure she’ll soon be better! quite well, perhaps, when the warm spring days come and the flowers are in bloom.” But tears fell fast from her eyes even as she spoke.

“It’s an old saying that while there’s life there’s hope,” said Harry, trying hard to make his tones steady; “so we’ll just hope on, at the same time doing everything that can be done to—to prolong her precious life; for she’s just the loveliest and dearest little sister that ever anybody had.”

“Yes,” said Ethel, “and nothing is impossible with God. Oh, let us all three pray that she may be spared to us if it is best for her and for us. I must go now and get her supper ready and carry it up to her.”

“It is ready now; broiled bird, toast, fruit, tea, and cake. I thought they would all taste good to her, and you know the doctors say she may eat anything and everything she fancies.”

“That seems to show that they don’t consider her so very, very ill,” remarked Harry hopefully. “Let us all go up with the supper. I haven’t seen her since morning, you know.”

They did so, and were so cheerfully and pleasantly greeted by the dear young invalid that Harry was more than ever convinced that the doctors had sounded a false alarm.

The sisters too grew hopeful, Dorothy also, and they made quite a cheerful little party about the tea table; the maid-of-all-work sitting with Nannette while they all ate.

But not so with the uncles, to whom the same report of the doctors’ opinion had been carried. They came in together just as the young people rose from the table, and though they did not express their fears, something in their air and manner remarked those of the others; Ethel’s especially. She knew they had come to see Nannette, and quickly led the way to her room.

The face on the pillow brightened visibly on their entrance. “Oh, Uncle George and Uncle Albert,” she exclaimed, holding out her hand with a bright, sweet smile, “how good in you to come to see me to-night! I’m so very glad to see you.”

“Are you, dear?” said Uncle George, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. “I think not more glad than we are to see you—our own dear little niece; and if there is anything you want—anything that would add to your comfort—you must tell us so without the least hesitation.”

“Yes, indeed, dear child,” added Uncle Albert, caressing her in his turn, “we are ready and desirous to do anything and everything we can to relieve and make you better.”

“Thank you, dear uncles,” she returned with a very grateful look up into their faces, “you are both so good and kind to me always. I don’t know of anything more that I want, but I love you both so dearly, dearly. Please remember that, whenever you think of me after—after I’m gone.”

“We won’t think of that; we will hope to keep you for a long time, dear little Nan,” returned her Uncle Albert, his voice betraying some emotion.

Nan gave him a look of yearning affection and slipped a hand into his.

“I know I haven’t very long to stay in this world, dear uncle,” she said softly, “but no one need be sorry, because I am not; for oh, it will be so sweet to go and live with the dear Saviour, free from sin and sorrow and pain. And I think it will seem only a very little while till all my loved ones will come to be there with me.”

“God grant none of us may miss it!” he exclaimed low and feelingly.

“I’m very glad to find you so free from fear of death,” remarked her Uncle George, taking her other hand and holding it in a tender, loving clasp, “for it will be easier for you on that account, whatever the future may have in store for you. Try, dear child, just to leave the whole matter in the Lord’s hands and be ready to go or stay as He may see fit to appoint.”

“And if I am taken, you will try to comfort my dear sisters and brother, won’t you, uncles? for I know they will be full of sorrow, for a time at least.”

Both gave the promise she asked; then after a little more tenderly kind talk they bade her an affectionate good-night and went away, for they saw that she was weary and in need of rest.

But they and some of the cousins were there frequently during the few weeks that she lingered on this side of the river of death, doing all in their power to add to her comfort and happiness. But the nursing fell to Dorothy and the brother and sisters, who one and all esteemed it a privilege to be with and wait upon the patient, uncomplaining sufferer.

They were all about her when, one lovely spring morning, she passed away to the better land, going so peacefully and quietly that they scarcely knew the precise moment when the redeemed spirit took its flight.

It was Dorothy who first perceived that the change had come.

“Dear blessed one!” she sobbed, her tears falling like rain as she bent down over the still form, laid a hand tenderly upon the cold forehead, and gently closed the eyes. “She has left us to be forever with the Lord, and is even now singing the song of redeeming love.”

“Yes; it is a blessed change for her,” sobbed Ethel, kneeling on the other side of the bed with one cold hand fast clasped in hers, “but oh, how can we ever learn to live without her!”

“Oh, how can we!” cried Blanche, weeping as if her heart would break, while Harry, with a groan of anguish, rushed from the room to lock himself in his own.

“Dear girls,” said Dorothy softly, “be comforted with the thought that though she cannot come back to you—and oh, she would not if she could—you may one day go to her—to that blessed land where parting is unknown.”