Annie gave her a quick, questioning glance. "Yes, Annie, I understand," she said, quietly. "He received his worst injury before the ladder fell." "O aunty, what shall I do?" "Indeed, my dear child, I can hardly tell you. You are placed in a difficult and delicate position. Perhaps your father's words were wisest, 'Be a sister to him.' At any rate, you have more power with him than any one else, and you owe it to him to do all you can to save him." "I am ready to do anything, aunty, for it seems as if I could never be happy if he should die an unbeliever." Annie stole noiselessly to Gregory's side, and motioned to the young man who was in charge to withdraw to the next room. Gregory was still asleep. She sat down by him and was greatly shocked to see how emaciated and pale he was. It seemed as if he had suffered from an illness of weeks rather than days. "He will die," she murmured, with all her old terror at the thought returning. "He will die, and for me. Though innocent, I shall always feel that his blood is upon me;" and she buried her face in her hands, and her whole frame shook with a passion of grief. Her emotion awoke him, and he recognized with something like awe the bowed head at his side. Her grief for her father, as he supposed it to be, seemed such a sacred thing! And yet he could not bear to see her intense sorrow. His heart ached to comfort her, but what words of consolation could such as he offer? Still, had she not come to him as if for comfort? This thought touched him deeply, and he almost cursed his unbelieving soul that made him dumb at such a time. What could he say but miserable commonplaces in regard to a bereavement like hers? He did not say anything, but merely reached out his hand and gently stroked her bowed head. Then she knew he was awake, and she took his hand and bowed her head upon it. "Miss Walton," he said, in a husky voice, "it cuts me to the heart to see you grieve so. But, alas! I do not know how to comfort you, and I can't say trite words which mean nothing. After losing such a father as yours, what can any one say?" She raised her head and said, impetuously, "It's not for father I am grieving. He is in heaven--he is not lost to me. It's for you--you. You are breaking my heart." "Miss Walton," he began, in much surprise, "I don't understand--" "Why don't you understand?" she interrupted. "What do you think I am made of? Do you think that you can lie here and die for me and I go serenely on? Do you not see that you would blight the life you have saved?" His apathy was gone now. But he was bewildered, so sudden and overpowering was her emotion. He only found words to say, "Miss Walton, God knows I am yours, body and soul. What can I do?"