She'll have tears enough to shed by and by, but I'll double my diligence, and watch little Willie more closely." So night after night, when Mary was sleeping the deep sleep of childhood, Sally would steal noiselessly to her room, and bending over the little wasting figure at her side, would wipe the cold sweat from her face, and whisper in the unconscious baby's ear messages of love for "the other little Willie, now waiting for her in Heaven." At last Mary could no longer be deceived, and one day when Alice lay gasping in Sally's lap she said, "Aunt Sally isn't Alice growing worse?
She doesn't play now, nor try to walk." Sally laid her hand on Mary's face and replied, "Poor child, you'll soon be all alone, for Willie's going to find his mother." There was no outcry,--no sudden gush of tears, but nervously clasping her hands upon her heart, as if the shock had entered there, Mary sat down upon her bed, and burying her face in the pillow, sat there for a long time.

But she said nothing, and a careless observer might have thought that she cared nothing, as it became each day more and more evident that Alice was dying.

But these knew not of the long nights when with untiring love she sat by her sister's cradle, listening to her irregular breathing, pressing her clammy hands, and praying to be forgiven if ever, in thought or deed, she had wronged the little one now leaving her.
And all this time there came no kind word or message of love from Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy had told her so.

"Oh, if she would only come and see her;" said Mary, "it wouldn't seem half so bad." "Write to her," said Sal; "peradventure that may bring her." Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a leaf from her writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote hurriedly, "Ella, dear Ella, won't you come and see little Alice once before she dies?
You used to love her, and you would now, if you could see how white and beautiful she looks.

Oh, do come.