The summer was unspeakably beautiful to the dying youth. To sit in his easy-chair beside the low window of his loved chamber, and let his eyes wander over the greenness and glory of nature, while his thoughts went upward to the Paradise of immortal joys, or to rove languidly about the grounds of his patron, supported by the kind old man whose tenderness and care were ever ready, or to recline upon a couch beside the door while Kittie Fay talked to him in her pleasant sympathetic way, or read to him in a low soft tone—these things made up the sum of his waning life, and imparted a quiet sort of rapture to every moment. Mahan Doughty—now grown a large and bashful girl—came again with some simple flowers, that recalled to him the distant years, and Sally Bunt stood often beside him, not as of old with the newly-laid egg; but with nice broth from some favorite chicken, whose head was as nothing, when the word came to the old playmate that Archie was fading away. A great gulf had separated them since he lived on the plain, for none of his former associates had dared venture an intimacy after his removal within the precincts of the "great house;" but an undying sympathy made a bridge over the wide gulf, and they crossed and recrossed fearlessly, to minister to their friend.

The imbecile old grandmother played with the thin fingers of her idol boy, and laughed with an idiotic chuckle as she looked upon the white face, calling him her "gentleman," and wondering "how he came to have such a delicate skin, when his father was brown and tawny."

Patrick and Molly discussed the case of the sick youth as often as they were left alone, with disconsolate and saddened hearts; and all that could cheer him with the words of a comfort which they were far from feeling in their own spirits, were the mother and daughter, who had learned to look away from themselves in every grief and sorrow, that they might be a blessing to others. The day had been terribly oppressive, and both had been watching the youth as he lay fainting and exhausted upon his couch. Not one moment had they ceased fanning him gently lest the weak breath would take its flight; but now a refreshing breeze was stirring the locks upon his temples, and imparting to him a little strength, so that Kittie could leave for a few moments to attend to her cousin Willie, whose demands were more importunate upon her than ever, since her time was required in the sick presence.

"How is Archie, to-night, Kittie?" asked he, as his cousin stepped lightly over the threshold, and seated herself on the sofa beside him.

"He seems to revive a little," said she; "Doctor Fincke thinks he may yet linger for a few days, but I am fearful it can not be—to me he seems very weak and low."

"I am quite impatient for the end, Kittie," said Willie, in a light and careless tone, "for I have a great deal to say to you, and you are so taken up with this young man that I really have not one moment of your time, lately. It seems as if there might be a proper nurse found, without your acting in that capacity."

"It is my pleasure, cousin Willie," said Kittie, in a gentle and subdued voice. "Nothing could induce me to lose the few last words of this dying saint. He seems already to reflect the glory of the upper land, so that every one around is blessed by its influence. Oh! Willie, if you would only learn from so pure an example to make this life but the stepping-stone to a better and higher being, instead of taking it for the only good, and giving up every thought to it, it would be such a gain to yourself, and such a joy to us all!"

"Wouldn't you like to go with me to see Archie?" continued she, a moment after, as her cousin had taken no notice of her appeal. "He often speaks very kindly of you, and I'm sure it would give him pleasure to know that you are truly his friend."

"But Kittie, what's the use! You know I don't care any thing about the young man, and that it will be quite a relief to me when he is no longer there to keep you from me. I have never been to the cottage since he occupied it, and I don't mean to annoy myself with the sight of him now. It would give me the horrors to see him die!"

Kittie did not urge the matter, but she felt how little there was in the calm of that Christian soul to excite any gloom or terror in the beholder, and so soon as she could get away from her cousin she resumed her seat beside the sick bed. She had a right to be there now—not a word had been spoken to tell her so; but the gentle heart revealed itself to her in a silent, yet none the less intelligible way, and her own responded warmly and heartily.