All the stories I had ever heard of supposed death and premature burial rushed horribly into my mind.

Conquering alike my superstitious dread or fear of entering the infected room, I leaped out of bed, threw on some clothes, got a light, and went in.
There laid the little corpse, all safe and still--for ever.

And like its own spirit watching in the night at the head of the forsaken clay, sat Muriel.
I snatched her up and ran with her out of the room, in an agony of fear.
She hid her face on my shoulder, trembling, "I have not done wrong, have I?
I wanted to know what it was like--that which you said was left of little Tommy.

I touched it--it was so cold.

Oh! Uncle Phineas! THAT isn't poor little Tommy ?" "No, my blessed one--no, my dearest child! Don't think of it any more." And, hardly knowing what was best to be done, I called John, and told him where I had found his little daughter.