Mr. Black raised the lid of the little casket and thence a small bundle of letters, their ink now faded to a pale yellow. They were tied together with a thin blue ribbon. Mr. Black touched them lovingly and sunk into a reverie from which Tom made no stir to rouse him. The vacant eyes of the invalid seemed to be looking through and beyond the stalwart youth or to be intent on the unforgotten scenes of a buried past. Then with a wan smile and a gentle sigh the faint voice said: "If I die, Tom, I trust you to place these with me." Then, like a maiden confessing her heart's secret: "Ah! Tom, even your old dominie was young once--but there was Priscilla, you know." And what tragedy of a sacrificed life those letters revealed was never betrayed to the eyes of Tom or other man, for unopened and unread they laid upon the faithful, uncomplaining heart that treasured them. "And, now, Tom, to business. This you see is my will. A man doesn't die any sooner you know for making his will. When I lost Priscilla, a rare woman, Tom, but over tender for this World, a matchless Woman,--I made a new will. I haven't much to leave, but what there is will be yours. I should like you to keep the books--don't part with them. They have been very precious to me. Perhaps some day you will know how precious books can be. I had hoped, fondly hoped, that you would turn to scholarship and take my seat by the old desk--but it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be," and the schoolmaster shook his head sadly. Again Tom could find no words--what could he say, how could he tell the master that a few hours before the glance of a young maid's eye and the trill of her glad young voice and the touch of her soft white hand had been of more moving eloquence than a guardian's pleading, and that, as he pushed over the hills that day through depth of snow and stress of storm to the sickbed side, revolving many things in his awakened mind, he had made a great resolve and vowed a deep and binding vow. "There remains but this," continued Mr. Black. "You have seen this locket before. It was your mother's. The time has come when I may place it where it belongs. You know its story. Wear it ever, and may God in His own good time raise the veil and grant light where now is darkness and certainly where all is fruitless conjecture." Tom took the locket, pressed it to his quivering lips and hid it in his bosom. "Lucy shall twine it about my neck," he said, "and I will wear it ever." "Send for Moll now. I must lie down. You won't forget Moll, when I am gone. She is a good soul, and has tended me well." The old man was assisted to his bed, and sank exhausted on the pillow. There was silence in the darkling chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the fast failing man. "Read me the twenty-first Psalm," he said, presently. But Tom's voice failed him, and broke as he read: