VERY HARD CASH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."

CHAPTER XLI.

Dr. Short arrived, approved Dr. Phillips's
treatment, and said the case was severe but not
hopeless, and he would call again. A bed was
prepared in the house for Mr. Hardie: but
neither he nor any of the Dodds closed an eye
that sorrowful night.

About midnight, after a short slumber, the
sufferer became uneasy, and begged to be left
with Julia. Julia was sent for, and found her a
good deal excited. She inquired more than once
if they were quite alone, and then asked for
paper and a pencil. She wrote a few lines, and
made Julia put them in a cover and seal them.
"Now dear friend," she said, "promise me not
to open this, nor even to let your mother; it is
not for your happiness that what I have written
should be seen by her or you; no, no, much
better not. Come; dear friend, pledge me your
honour." Julia pledged her honour.

Then Jane wrote on the cover, "From a dying
sister." Julia saw that; and wept sore.

Jane comforted her. "Do not weep for me,
love: I am content to go, or stay. This is not
my doing; so I know it must be for the best.
He is leading me by a way that I know not.
Oh my beloved friend, how sweet it is to lie in
His hands, and know no will but His. Ay, I
thank Him for crossing my will, and leading me
to himself by His own good way, and not by
poor blind, foolish, mine."

In this spirit of full resignation she abode
constant, and consoled her weeping friends from time
to time, whenever she was quite herself.

About daybreak, being alone with her father,
she shed a few tears at his lonely condition. "I
fear you will miss me," said she. "Take my
advice, dear; be reconciled with Alfred at once,
and let Julia be your daughter, since I am leaving
you. She is all humility and heart. Dying, I
prize her and her affection more highly; I seem
to see characters clearer, all things clearer, than I
did before my summons came."

The miserable father tried to be playful and
scold her: "You must not talk nor think of death,"
he said. "Your bridal-day is to come first; I
know all; Edward Dodd has told me he loves
you. He is a fine noble fellow; you shall
marry him: I wish it. Now, for his sake, summon
all your resolution, and make up your mind
to live. Why, at your age, it needs but to say,
'I will live, I will, I will;' and when all the
prospect is so smiling, when love awaits you at
the altar, and on every side! If you could leave
your poor doting father, do not leave your lover:
and here he is with his mother crying for you.
Let me comfort him; let me tell him you will
live for his sake and mine."

Even this could not disturb the dying Christian.
"Dear Edward," she said; "it is sweet to know
he loves me. Ah, well, he is young; he must
live without me till I become but a tender
memory of his youth. And oh, I pray for him
that he may cherish the words I have spoken to
him for his soul's good, far longer than he can
remember these features that are hastening to
decay."

At ten in the morning Mr. Hardie's messenger
returned without Alfred, and with a note
from Dr. Wycherley to this effect: that the
order for Alfred's admission into his asylum being
signed by Mr. Thomas Hardie, he could not send
him out even for a day except on Thomas Hardie's
authority; it would be a violation of the law.
Under the circumstances, however, he thought he
might venture to receive that order by telegraph.
If then Mr. Hardie would telegraph Thomas
Hardie in Yorkshire to telegraph him (Wycherley),
Alfred should be sent with two keepers
wherever Mr. T. Hardie should so direct.

Now Mr. Hardie had already repented of
sending for Alfred at all. So, instead of
telegraphing Yorkshire, he remained passive, and
said sullenly to Mrs. Dodd, "Alfred can't come,
it seems."

Thus Routine kept the brother from his dying
sister.

They told Jane, with aching hearts, there was
reason to fear Alfred could not arrive that day.

She only gave a meaning look at Julia, about
the paper; and then she said with a little sigh,
"God's will be done."

This was the last disappointment Heaven
allowed Earth to inflict on her; and the shield
of Faith turned its edge.

One hour of pain, another of delirium, and now
the clouds that darken this mortal life seemed to
part and pass, and Heaven to open full upon