prince that she knew was coming later on, to all her children--she called them by their names, "five brave sons and five beauteous daughters." She turned her back on them all, cut her long hair, and heard the convent gates clang to--all this was an accomplished destiny in her mind, when the telegram came to say her mother was dead. Her father was ill, too, now; there was nothing but sickness and death in the world, and the child was to stay where she was. The telegram was from her grandmother to cousin Nathaniel. Four days later, when she was permitted to go home, the funeral was over, and her grandmother was in charge of her mother's house. It was very awful. What did God mean by it? The following week John Gano returned to his post at the bank. As he was leaving the counting-room, that first and last day after the death of his wife, he was seized with a violent hemorrhage, and was carried home, it was thought, to die. Mrs. Gano nursed her son back to something faintly resembling health, and urged him to come home with her. No; he would stay where he was, till-- "Nonsense! you must rouse yourself for your children's sake. Here is Val, left to servants, and running wild. She must go to school. None better than the New Plymouth Seminary for Young Ladies." "Oh, time enough for that. I can't let the child go just yet." "There _isn't_ time. That child is going to wreck and ruin. And you don't suppose I'm going to leave you here alone? You must come and get well and strong." "It's no use," the invalid said, adding, half under his breath: "I'm done for." "Hush!" she interrupted, frowning. "Anybody is done for who has made up his mind that he is." John Gano shook his head. "You know we all go like this. It's not a matter of imagination." "Nearly everything's a matter of imagination," she said. The gaunt man put his handkerchief to his lips. "This is imagination, too, I suppose," he said, as he turned the bright spot in and out of sight--"a case of seeing red." "That small stain means very little in itself," she retorted, seeming scarcely moved; "its effect on your mind is the only thing to be afraid of." "You speak as though I hadn't inherited the blessed business." "Oh, inherited--inherited! I'm sick of that white feather showing all along the line. Look at me!" He did look at her. She seemed suddenly taller and thinner and grayer and more defiant than any being he had ever beheld. "Look at me!" she repeated. "I have been given up by the doctors half a dozen times. My mother was told when I was sixteen that I had only a piece of a lung left--that it might last me through the winter. It has served my purpose for half a century since. But I didn't worry about the color of my handkerchiefs, and I didn't admit for a moment that I could possibly be induced to die--that is, of course"--she put on a sudden aspect of resignation that was almost funny--"unless it was the Lord's will." CHAPTER VIII