"Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of hurrying feet in the hall. A quick rap at the door, and a summons to Meta's room followed. She had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. Grace forgot everything in anxiety for her darling, and hastily snatching a dressing gown, she flew to her room. The poor child was tossing restlessly from side to side; her little hands were hot and burning, and her cheeks crimsoned with fever. Mr. Fay hastily resigned her to Grace's care, while he went for a physician.
"With the tenderness of a mother she changed the heated pillows, parted the thick curls from her little forehead, bathed the throbbing temples, and rendered the thousand little nameless services, known only to the soft step, quick eye, and delicate hand of woman.
"Meanwhile the mother slept quietly in an adjoining room, solacing herself that the doctor knew better than she what was best for the child, and fearing the effect of night vigils upon her complexion.
"When Mr. Fay returned with the physician, Meta had sunk into an uneasy slumber. Resigning her post to him, Grace watched his countenance with an anxious eye while he felt the pulse and noted the breathing of her little pupil. Writing his prescriptions, he handed them to Grace, who had signified her intention of spending the night, adding as he did so,
"'It is needless to enjoin quiet upon one who seems so well to understand the duties of a nurse.'
"With a glance at his child, in which all the father was expressed, and a grateful 'God bless you' to Grace, Mr. Fay left the room. Shading the small lamp, lest it might waken the child, Grace unhanded her rich tresses, and loosening the girdle of her dressing gown, seated herself beside her.
"Silently, slowly, pass the night watches, in the chamber of the sick and dying! The dull ticking of the clock, falling upon the sensitive ear of the watcher, strikes to the throbbing heart a nameless terror. With straining eye, its hours are counted; with nervous hand, at the appointed time, the healing draught is prepared for the sufferer. The measured tread of the watchman, as he passes his rounds beneath the windows, the distant rumble of the stage-coach, perchance the disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone break the solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts like unbidden guests rush in. Life appears like the _dream_ it is; _Eternity_ the _waking_; and involuntarily the most thoughtless look up for help to _Him_, by whom 'the hairs of our head are all numbered.'