Gertie had sat thus for more than an hour gazing upon the pale face she held, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, for she could not cry any more. Her heart ached too hard for that. Godfrey was dying,—_her_ Godfrey,—he said he was the last time he spoke to her, and he had called her his little Gertie, and kissed her hand and bade her stay with him on the ship which was sailing in smooth waters now and was almost at the shore. And he was hers,—her brother, perhaps, but still hers more than anybody else’s in all the wide, wide world. Alice had sent a message to her: “Kiss him once for me!” but Gertie would not do it. She might, perhaps, kiss a dead Godfrey, but Godfrey living must know when she kissed him, and why, and so she only held his head and wiped the sweat from his brow, and let her own face fall over and touch his for a minute, while she whispered in his ear and asked if he still heard her and knew she was with him. And it was thus she sat when the colonel came, and going up to his son called him by his name. But there was no response, no sign, and the physician who stood waiting, said: “He heeds no one but his sister. Speak to him, Miss Schuyler. See if he knows you now.” Then, over the whiteness of Gertie’s face, there came a flush at hearing herself called Miss Schuyler in the presence of the colonel, but she put her lips close to Godfrey’s ear, and said: “Godfrey, do you know me yet?” “Yes, _my_ Gertie, stick to the ship, we are about ready to land,” was the faint reply; and with a bitter cry, as if at the sight of the man who called himself her father every barrier had gone down, Gertie gave way, and winding both her arms round the form she held, sobbed passionately: “Oh, Godfrey, my darling, if you _can_ hear me now, listen while I tell you how much I love you, for I do,—I _do_, oh, Godfrey, oh, Colonel Schuyler,” and she lifted her white face piteously to him. “Forgive me, if I am wrong, I cannot,—_cannot_ love him as a brother.” Her head drooped upon her bosom, and it was in vain that Godfrey whispered: “Steady now, _La petite capitaine_, the boat is running into port.” CHAPTER LVIII. GERTIE AND THE STORY. Gertie did not go into Godfrey’s room again, nor was it necessary, as he was very quiet and seemed to be sleeping, while his father sat by him with his head bowed down, and such marks of age upon him that Miss Rossiter asked him if he were sick. He did not hear her at first, and she said, again: “Howard, are you sick? Have you any trouble on your mind?” Then he looked up, with a faint smile, and answered her: “Trouble? sick? No, not sick, and no trouble now; that is past. I say, Christine, have I grown very old? isn’t my hair turning gray? I did not like to ask Edith, because, you see, the—the trouble concerned her the most.”