"Humph, I see the reason for all this civility now." Queenie's eyes rested tenderly on the worn, cadaverous face. "You see I am longing to thank you, and yet I hardly know how to do so without giving you offence." "I hate thanks," gruffly. "There, girl, that will do; let us get to our reading," and Queenie, who saw that unusual suffering lay at the bottom of the old man's bitter humor, did not venture to thwart him just then. When the time came for her to go she put the marker in the book carefully, and leant over him. As she touched him softly with her hand, he started and opened his eyes; they had a strange, almost a wild look in them for a moment. "I could have sworn it was Emily's hand," he muttered. "Hers was always soft and warm, like the breast of a little bird. Pshaw! what rubbish I am talking; you have read me to sleep, child; I have been dreaming." "Let me give you your draught, and talk to you a little; to-morrow I am going away, you know." "Aye, to-morrow, and a good many to-morrows." She still held the cold, nerveless fingers in hers, and her voice was very gentle in his ear. "I shall not like to think you are missing me; when evening comes I shall wish I were here beside you, reading to you and lulling your pain. It seems to me," continued the girl, speaking still more softly, "as though in some strange way, and out of strange circumstances, we have grown to be friends." He sighed, and turned restlessly on his pillow, but there was no repulse. "You have been very good to me, and I shall love to remember your goodness. I think mamma was right when she said you had a heart. To-morrow I am going away--as you know--for a long, long time, and I want you to do me a favor." "Pshaw! I will do nothing blindfold," with a return of his old harshness; but, under the half-closed eyelids, how he watched it--the bright speaking face! "I want you to see Emmie. Hush! do not refuse," as he gave utterance to an expression of impatience, almost disgust; "do not send me away less happy; do not refuse such a trifling request. If I have ever pleased you, if I have ever wiled away an hour of bitter pain, grant me this one favour: let the child stand here for a moment beside you." "Can you not leave a dying man in peace?" he began savagely, but his wrath faded before the girl's mild glance. A brief spasm as of pain contracted his forehead, and his eyes closed. "Have your foolish whim," he muttered at last, almost inaudibly. "But what have I to do with children? I always hated them." "You will not hate Emmie," returned Queenie as she hurriedly rose; "it is a fine evening, and she pleaded for me to bring her; 'she wanted to see poor Uncle Andrew,' she said." "Tell her not to call me that," he exclaimed, angrily; but Queenie had already closed the door behind her.