So without further ado Benny was carried into the house, stripped of his dirty and ragged attire, put into a warm bath, and then laid gently in a clean soft bed, in a cool pleasant room. Once only he opened his eyes, looked around him with a bewildered air, then relapsed again into unconsciousness.

The doctor, who arrived toward evening, pronounced it a very bad case, ordered port wine to be poured down his throat in small quantities during the night, and promised to call again next day.

"Will he live?" was Mrs. Fisher's anxious question.

"Fear not," said the doctor: "want, exposure, and I fear also sunstroke, have done their work. Whoever the little fellow belongs to, he's had a hard time of it, and to such death should not be unwelcome."

During the next day Benny was conscious at brief intervals, but he lay so perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, that they hardly knew at times whether he was alive or dead. His face was as white as the pillow on which he lay, and his breathing all but imperceptible. The doctor shook his head when he came, but held out no hope of recovery.

So that summer Sabbath passed away, and Monday came and went, and Tuesday followed in the track, and Wednesday dawned, and still Benny's life trembled in the balance. The doctor said there was no perceptible increase of strength, while the pulse, if anything, was weaker. Hence, without some great change, he thought the boy would not live many hours longer.

Outside the birds twittered in the trees, and the songs of the haymakers floated on the still summer air; but within, in a darkened room, little Benny to all appearance lay dying. He had reached the border land, and was standing on the river's brink. On the other side of the stream was the everlasting home, where his Nelly dwelt, and where hunger and weariness and pain could never come. Why did he linger, when he wanted so much to cross and be at rest for ever?

He had no fear, and to the onlookers it seemed easy dying. No sigh or moan escaped his lips; he lay as still as the dead.

The day waned at length and darkened into night, and Mrs. Fisher and one of the servants remained up to watch by the little invalid. It was about midnight when they observed a change come over him. The brow contracted as if in pain, the wasted fingers plucked at the clothes, and the breathing became heavy and irregular.

Mrs. Fisher ran to her husband's room and summoned him at once to Benny's bedside. John Fisher was a kind man, and needed no second bidding. With gentle hand he wiped away the big drops that were gathering on the little sufferer's brow; then turning to his wife, he said,

"Do you think you had better stay, love? I think he is dying."