The old fellow retreated to put his hoe away, and Julia, casting a glance at a buggy now being driven briskly down the road, went in to her father. The Major was decidedly unwell. He was up and dressed, and was sitting in his favourite chair by the window. But his posture was not his own. Always erect hitherto, standing or sitting, this morning he slouched down in his chair, listlessly, and his shoulders had pulled forward. An expression almost of hopelessness was on his face, and Julia noticed, as she came quietly in, that there was no book in his hand. This fact, apparently trivial, worried her more than the dejected appearance her father presented. For she did not remember of ever seeing him alone before when he did not hold a book; if he was not reading it he was nursing it. The girl quickly and noiselessly arranged the flowers in sundry vases and bowls, then came and knelt by her father's side and took one of his passive, unresponsive hands. "Daddy, don't you feel a little better?" she pleaded. He did not look at her. His eyes were directed on the floor, and he merely shook his head slowly in answer to her solicitous query. "What is it, daddy dear? Do you hurt anywhere? Won't you go to bed, or lie down on the couch and let me sit by you?" The tender words from his beloved child roused the Major. He lifted his head and mechanically adjusted his stock. Then he turned to her and placed his hand caressingly upon her brown hair. "Ah, little Julia! Little Julia!" That was all for several moments. He sat and looked at her for some time, and the love in his soul beatified his countenance. "I'm not sick," he said, after a while. "That is, no doctor on earth could help me. It's just the letting go, sweet daughter. I'm old, you must remember, and I can't endure things nor fight as I once could. It has come in the last few days--I have seemed to crumble--to wither, and it has weighed me down horribly. I should have risen above it. I do not care about myself; my life is lived, but you, dear child--it is the thought of your future which fills me with alarm and well-nigh breaks my heart. I have no inheritance for you--I have nothing to leave you but poverty and danger. Don't you understand?" His voice was gravely tender as he spoke to her thus, and it made her heart ache, and the burning tears come to her lids. "Oh, daddy!" she cried; "you must be mistaken! You will--you _must_ stay with me many years yet, for I could not get along without you. Tell me you will try--you know the mind has so much to do with the body. Brace up, daddy, for your Julia! You say you have no sickness; then try and let your spirit be bright--for me! Won't you?" She arose, glided into his lap, curled one arm around his neck and kissed him on the forehead.