“John,” said Mrs. Dennistoun, grasping him by the arm, “you are talking nonsense, you don’t know what you are saying. My darling! she was never weak nor had a feeble heart, nor--anything! She will live to bring up _his_ children, her baby’s children, upon her knees.” “And what would it matter?” said Elinor--looking at him with clear eyes, from which the tears had disappeared in the shock of this unlooked-for suggestion--“suppose I have no more strength than that, suppose I were to die? you shall be his guardian, John, bring him up a good man; and his Heavenly Father will take care of him. I am not afraid.” A man had better not deal with such subjects between two women. What with Mrs. Dennistoun’s indignant protest and Elinor’s lofty submission, John was at his wits’ end. “I did not mean to carry things to such a bitter end as that,” he said. “You want to force me into a corner and make me say things I never meant. The question is serious enough without that.” There was again a little pause, and then Elinor, with one of those changes which are so perplexing to soberminded people, suddenly turned to him, holding out both her hands. “John--we’ll leave that in God’s hands whatever is to happen to me. But in the meantime, while I am living--and perhaps my life depends upon being quiet and having a little peace and rest. It is not that I care very much for my life,” said Elinor, with that clear, open-eyed look, like the sky after rain--“I am shipwrecked, John, as you say--but my mother does, and it’s of--some--consequence--to baby; and if it depends upon whether I am left alone, you are too good a friend to leave me in the lurch. And you said--one night--whatever happened I was to send for you.” John sprang up from his seat, dropping the hands which he had taken into his own. She was like Queen Katherine, “about to weep,” and her breast strained with the sobbing effort to keep it down. “For God’s sake,” he cried, “don’t play upon our hearts like this! I will do anything--everything--whatever you choose to tell me. Aunt, don’t let her cry, don’t let her go on like that. Why, good heavens!” he cried, bursting himself into a kind of big sob, “won’t it be bad for that little brat of a baby or something if she keeps going on in this way?”