The blue eyes wandered from the young man's face to the golden head bowed at the bedside. At least the young man thought so, but his own eyes were very dim, his own heart was beating very, very fast, and he could not see very clearly. "I will do all that you wish, as nearly as I can," he said tremulously. "But--dear Miss Judy, have you considered? This is your sister's home--all that she has in the world." Miss Judy's little hand tried to creep toward her sister's, but its strength failing Doris tenderly took it in hers and laid it on Miss Sophia's. Yet even then, when it had grown cold--with the coldness that never passes, and had become weak with the weakness that can never gain strength--it made a slight protecting movement. "Sister Sophia--isn't--willing--to keep what is--not--our own. And Doris--" There now followed so long a pause that Doris, who had been quiet and calm in her self-control up to this moment, thought it too late for her grief to disturb Miss Judy--believed it to be time to say quickly what she wished to say, if Miss Judy ever were to hear--and, dropping all guard, she burst into a passion of protest and weeping. "Oh, you do believe that I can do what I have promised, dear, dear Miss Judy. You surely believe that I can do what I have promised!" she cried. "It would break my heart to think that you doubted. I don't know how I can do it, but I will--I will--I will--somehow. I will take care of Miss Sophia--always--I will work so hard. There must be work--somewhere, for me to do. Whatever I can make shall be hers. Anyway, our home is hers. I will try to be as good to her--as you have been to me." "I do believe--my child," the faint and distant but sweet and loving voice said quite distinctly, and then, after one of the long, fluttering pauses, "but--you must let--Lynn--advise you." "Oh, if Doris only would--if you only could persuade her," Lynn cried. He fell on his knees beside the slender bowed figure, and laid his trembling hand on the golden head which rested now, shaken by sobbing, on the pillow close to the silver head that lay so quiet. He made no further vain effort to restrain a man's rare, reluctant tears, nor to steady his broken voice. "If you will ask Doris--maybe she can forgive me--for what I never meant to do--for what I did not know I was doing--till too late. Won't you ask?" he implored. "Dear, dear Miss Judy, she can refuse nothing--not even that--to you. And I love her so--with all my heart and soul and mind and strength. Won't you ask her to let me help her in caring for Miss Sophia--then all would be well; then there need be no more trouble. Can't you speak, dear Miss Judy? Just one word. Try--_try_ to ask her to let me help her--even though she may never consent to be my wife."