Dropping into the chair by the bedside, she laid her arms gently about him. "You don't suffer, do you?" How immeasurably far away he seemed! How futile was any endeavour to reach him! Then she remembered that he had always been far away, that he had always stood just outside the circle in which they lived, as if he were a member of some affectionate but inarticulate animal kingdom. He tried to smile, but the effort only accentuated the crooked line of his mouth. "No, I don't suffer." For a moment he was silent; then he added in an almost inaudible tone: "It's sort of restful." A leaden weight of tears fell on her heart. Not his death, but his life seemed to her more than she could bear. What was her pain, her wretchedness, compared to his monotony of toil? What was any pain, any wretchedness, compared to the emptiness of his life? For a little while she talked on cheerfully, telling him of the lectures she had heard and the books she had read, and of all the plans she had made to help him with the farm. "I've borrowed some money to start with, and we'll make something of it yet, Pa," she said brightly. His lips moved, but she could not understand what he said. Straining her ears, she bent over him. For an instant it seemed to her that his tone became clearer, and that he was on the point of speaking aloud; then the struggle ceased, and he lay looking at her with his expression of mute resignation. After this, though she tried to interest him in her plans, she saw that his attention was beginning to wander. Every now and then he made an effort to follow her, while a bewildered expression crept into his face; but it was only for a minute at a time that he could fix his mind on what she was saying, and when the strain became too great for him, his gaze wandered to the open window and the harp-shaped pine, which towered, dark as night, against the morning blue of the sky. "Well, I'll go to breakfast now," she said, as carelessly as she could. "Ma has it ready for me." Rising from her chair, she stood looking down on him with misty eyes. After all, the pathos of life was worse than the tragedy. "Is the light too strong?" she asked, as she turned away. "Shall I close one of the shutters?" At first he did not follow her, his thoughts had roved so far away, and she repeated her question in another form. "Does the sun hurt your eyes?" A smile wrung his lips. "No, I like to see the big pine," he answered; and stealing out noiselessly, she left him alone with the tree and the sky. In the kitchen her mother stood over her while she ate, watching every mouthful with the eyes of repressed and hungry devotion. "You ain't so plump as you were, Dorinda, but you've kept your high colour." "Oh, I'm well enough, but you look worn out, Ma."