Mrs. Dalton died—a woman of fashion and folly, but always kind, in her way, to Editha; and though there had never been as much of sympathy and harmony between them as there should be between mother and daughter, yet it left her very lonely, and occasioned her the deepest grief that the one whom she had always called by that sacred name should be taken from her. Six months later Richard Forrester suddenly sickened, and from the first they knew that it was unto death. This blow appeared likely to crush Editha, for “Uncle Richard” had always been her friend and sympathizer. To him she had always carried all her griefs, her hopes and fears (for which no one else appeared to have neither time nor interest); and she ever found him a ready listener, and came away comforted and lightened of her burden, whatever it was. If she wanted a particular favor, it was to Uncle Richard she applied. He gratified every childish whim or wish, no matter what it was or what expense, time, or trouble it involved. He was her confident, too; all her little school-girl secrets were whispered unreservedly in his ear, and, as she grew older, all her plans were submitted to his judgment rather than to that of either father or mother. He always discussed them with her as with an equal, and as if they were as interesting to him as to herself, while her parents were liable to say, indulgently, yet with evident annoyance: “Do as you like, child, but I am too busy to attend to anything of the kind.” From the moment of his attack, Mr. Forrester had insisted upon the presence of Editha at his bedside; and there he lay and watched her, with his heart in his eyes, as if he knew he was looking his last upon the fair face and sunny-haired head that had been so dear to him for so many years. He had been stricken with paralysis while pleading a case in the court-room, and was brought to his home never to leave it again until he was borne forth by other feet, and laid away from the sight of men forever. His body was almost paralyzed, but, strange to say, his brain was clear, and he arranged regarding the disposal of many thing which were not mentioned in his will, and concerning the last services that were to be observed over his own body. “My little girlie,” he said, tenderly, to Editha one day, as she sat beside him, holding one of his numb and withered hands, and longing to do something to relieve his helplessness, “you have always loved Uncle Richard a little, haven’t you?”