he became quite skilful in broth-making. But Michael grew, daily, weaker and weaker—he could just creep from and to his bed, but that was all. Every thing now devolved on Francis; but Marion, who was a little, quiet, affectionate thing, would sit for hours by the old man's hammock, reach him refreshments, call her brother if he was wanted, and beguiled many a weary hour with her stock of hymns and scripture history.
Fine weather came at last, but it brought no strength to Michael. One day, with Frank's assistance, he wandered out a brief distance in the fresh morning air; with difficulty he returned to his hammock, and thence he never rose—he died that very afternoon. About an hour before he breathed his last, he called Frank to his side, gave him directions how to bury him, told him that it was his last belief that God in his mercy would restore Francis and his sister to their father, and commended to their future aid the faithless orphan Philip Michael, whom he had himself left at Southampton. Francis wept his promise. The old man then blessed them both, and said he was weary, and would fain sleep. They knew not when his spirit departed, for he died without a struggle.
