"It is God's will," he said, "and let us not rebel against it. The journey to the end is but a little longer now; we have come so far together, and surely we can go on alone." "No, not alone," I said, for the inspiration came to me then. "Our little child yonder--God has lent this lambkin to our keeping--share her love with us. There is so much, so very much you can do for her which we cannot do, for we are poor, and you are rich. Help us to care for her and share her love with us, and she shall be your child and ours." That was the compact between us fifteen years ago, and they have been happy, very happy years. Blossom--we call her Blossom, after the dear old friends who have been so good to her and to us--she comes from school to-night, and to-morrow we shall sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with our daughter. We always speak of her as "our daughter," for, you know, she belongs now no more to Cordelia and me than to Mr. and Mrs. Blossom. DEATH AND THE SOLDIER A soldier, who had won imperishable fame on the battlefields of his country, was confronted by a gaunt stranger, clad all in black and wearing an impenetrable mask. "Who are you that you dare to block my way?" demanded the soldier. Then the stranger drew aside his mask, and the soldier knew that he was Death. "Have you come for me?" asked the soldier. "If so, I will not go with you; so go your way alone." But Death held out his bony hand and beckoned to the soldier. "No," cried the soldier, resolutely; "my time is not come. See, here are the histories I am writing--no hand but mine can finish them--I will not go till they are done!" "I have ridden by your side day and night," said Death; "I have hovered about you on a hundred battlefields, but no sight of me could chill your heart till now, and now I hold you in my power. Come!" And with these words Death seized upon the soldier and strove to bear him hence, but the soldier struggled so desperately that he prevailed against Death, and the strange phantom departed alone. Then when he had gone the soldier found upon his throat the imprint of Death's cruel fingers--so fierce had been the struggle. And nothing could wash away the marks--nay, not all the skill in the world could wash them away, for they were disease, lingering, agonizing, fatal disease. But with quiet valor the soldier returned to his histories, and for many days thereafter he toiled upon them as the last and best work of his noble life. "How pale and thin the soldier is getting," said the people. "His hair is whitening and his eyes are weary. He should not have undertaken the histories--the labor is killing him."