entered she was lying upon the bed. Her face was very pale with the exception of the hectic spot which burned on either cheek.
"My son," said she feebly, raising her hand and laying it upon his arm. "My dear mother." said he sadly, while the tears rolled down his cheeks. There was a silence of several moments, then he spoke gently, laying his hand upon his mother's brow and stroking back the silken hair with a loving, tender caress.
"You are worse to-night, are you not, dear mother?"
"I have been worse all day, and I wish to speak with you once more before it is too late. I want you to sign a temperance pledge here by your mother's dying bed. Will you do it, my son?"
He made no reply for a moment, then he said:
"If I thought I could keep it God knows I would be glad to sign it, my mother, but you little know the temptations I have to meet. Beside this, I feel that I cannot live without the use of strong drink; so what is the use of trying? I had better drink myself to death and done with it," said he bitterly.
"Eugene, do not talk so. Draw a chair here by my side. It may be the last time I shall ever talk with you, yet it seems as if I cannot die and leave you like this. Will you not grant my last request, my son?"
Long and lovingly did the dying woman talk with him, and at last he grew calm and able to talk quietly and reasonably, and promised to do as she requested. Mary was summoned, and she drew up a pledge, and there by his mother's bedside, with her hand resting upon his shoulder, he signed it.
"God bless you, my son, and may he help you to keep this pledge," said Mrs. Ross as she sank back upon her pillow exhausted.
Time passed on, and Eugene seemed really about to conquer his old enemy. After the first few days his appetite for strong drink diminished, and he as well as his friends, began to hope that the worst was over. Alas! poor Eugene! One evening, as he drew on his coat to go out after tea, Mary approached him and said sadly:
"Brother, must you go out to-night? Mother is worse, and I fear will not live until morning. I wish you could stay in."
"I have an errand to do for Theodore, who is ill, but it will not take me half an hour. I will return soon, sister."
He bent over her and kissed her fondly, and hurriedly left the house. Mary returned to her place by her mother's side and soon forgot everything else, for a change was taking place that Mary knew full well heralded the approach of death. It had been storming all day, and the wind whistled mournfully around the little cottage. A sad, mournful vigil for poor Mary and Mrs. Wilmot to keep alone. Suddenly Mrs. Ross opened her eyes and gazed wildly around the room, saying:
"Mary, where are you?"
"Here I am, mother," said she, gently laying her hand upon the cold, clammy brow of her dying mother.
"Dear Mary, I cannot see you, my child."
With a low cry of anguish Mary sank upon her knees by the bedside. With a last effort Mrs. Ross raised her hand and laid it upon the bowed head of her daughter, and said brokenly:
"Promise me, Mary, that you will never forsake Eugene, let come what will."
"I promise you, mother, that I never will," said Mary between her sobs.
"God bless you, my darling! Tell Eugene — " the voice died away, there was one struggle for the breath that was gone forever, and all was over. Without, the wind blew and the rain and sleet descended pitilessly; within, Mary and Mrs. Wilmot were alone with the dead. Mary still knelt by the bedside, the hand of her dead mother resting as she had placed it upon the bowed head. Reverently Mrs. Wilmot approached the bedside and gently raising the cold, dead hand, laid it softly down above the heart that had ceased to beat, and then gently, lovingly she drew the orphan girl to her heart. Weeping bitterly,
