I was sitting at work, and she called out that she felt faint; so I jumped up and held her in my arms and sent our little Rotha for a neighbor.

But it was too late.

My poor darling was gone in a minute, and when the wee thing came running back to us, with red cheeks, she looked frightened, and cried, 'Josie! Josie!' 'My poor Rotie, my poor little lost Rotie,' I said, 'our dear Josie, she is in heaven!' Then the little one cried, 'No, no, no'; and wept, and wept till--till--_I_ wept with her." The door of the distant apartment must have been again thrown open, for a robustious fellow could be heard to sing a stave of a drinking song.

The words came clearly in the silence that preceded a general outburst of chorus:-- "Then to the Duke fill, Fill up the glass; The son of our martyr, beloved of the King." "We buried her there," continued Sim; "ay, we buried her in the town; and, with the crowds and the noise above her, there sleeps my brave Josie, and I shall see her face no more." Ralph rose up, and walked to the door by which he and Sim had entered from the yard of the inn.

He opened it and stood for a moment on the threshold.