The poor little thing's fever encreased towards night. The sensation is

most dreary, to use no stronger term, with which one looks forward to

passing the long hours of night beside a sick bed, especially if the

patient be an infant, who cannot explain its pain, and whose flickering

life resembles the wasting flame of the watch-light,

Whose narrow fire

Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge

Devouring darkness hovers.[5]

With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience

one marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a cock, that

sound of glee during day-time, comes wailing and untuneable--the creaking

of rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the

signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by weariness, had seated

herself at the foot of her cousin's bed, and in spite of her efforts

slumber weighed down her lids; twice or thrice she shook it off; but at

length she was conquered and slept. Idris sat at the bedside, holding

Evelyn's hand; we were afraid to speak to each other; I watched the stars

--I hung over my child--I felt his little pulse--I drew near the

mother--again I receded. At the turn of morning a gentle sigh from the

patient attracted me, the burning spot on his cheek faded--his pulse beat

softly and regularly--torpor yielded to sleep. For a long time I dared

not hope; but when his unobstructed breathing and the moisture that

suffused his forehead, were tokens no longer to be mistaken of the

383

The Last Man