"I do not see how your request can injure Charles," she continued, musingly. "I have no wish to marry now for a long time--not till these sad scenes have faded somewhat from memory. If you will only promise to live I will not marry him till you get strong and well--till you can look upon this matter as a man--as a brother ought. But your hostility must not be unreasonable or implacable. I _know_ you do Mr. Hunting great injustice. And yet such is my solicitude for you that I will do what seems to me almost disloyal. But I know that I owe a great deal to you as well as Charles." "What I ask is for your sake, not mine. I only used the obligation as a motive." "Well," said Annie, "I yield; and surely a sister could do no more than I have done to-night." "And I have simply done my duty," he answered, quietly. "And yet I thank you truly. You also may see the time when you will thank me more than when I interposed my worthless person between you and danger." "Please never call yourself 'worthless' to me again. We never did agree, and I fear we shall be gray before we do. But mark this: I am never going to give you up, whatever happens. I shall obey dear father's last words from both duty and inclination. But let us end this painful conversation. What have you eaten to-day?" "I'm sure I don't know," he said. "Will you eat something if I bring it?" "I will do anything you ask." "Now you give me hope," and she vanished, sending the regular watcher back to his post. Gregory found it no difficult task to eat the dainty little supper she brought. She had broken the malign spell he was under. As we have seen, his was a physical nature peculiarly subject to mental conditions. Soon after she said, in a low tone meant only for his ear, "Good-night, my poor suffering brother. We all three shall understand each other better in God's good time." "I hope so," he said, with a different meaning. "You have made me feel that I am not alone and uncared for in the world, though I cannot call you sister yet. Good-night." Annie went back to her father's side, and remained till her aunt almost forced her away. It is not necessary to dwell on the events of the next few days. Such is our earthly lot, nearly all can depict them by recalling their own sad experience: the hushed and solemn household, even the children speaking low and treading softly, as if they might awake one whom only "the last trump" could arouse. John Walton's funeral was no formal pageant, but an occasion of sincere and general mourning. Even those whose lives and characters were the opposite of his had the profoundest respect for him, and the entire community united in honoring his memory. Perhaps the most painful time of all to the stricken family was the evening after their slow, dreary ride to the village cemetery. Then, as not before, they realized their loss.