Mamma stroked my hand softly as it lay on the bed beside her. "Dear," she said presently, "I know my boys and girls will _never_ forget me, not even the very youngest, for they will hear of me from you older ones. Oh, if it had been my Father's will, how gladly would I have remained with you all! But you are all young; life and hope are strong within you, and you love one another. He--your father--is so different; he will grieve--alone--and grow farther and farther from human love and sympathy. Nannie, dear little daughter, remember how very, _very_ happy he has made me all these years, and oh, be good to him, and very patient and loving when I am gone!" Her very last look was given to papa; her last word was "Jack!" [Illustration: "I GAVE A VERY FAINT KNOCK."] For a good while I did try to do things for him, and to let him see that I loved him; but I had a feeling all the time--as in the hall that night--that he didn't want me near him, and would rather not have me in the study: so gradually I gave up going there, except for a few minutes each morning to ask if he needed anything. But this morning dear mamma's words came back to me, and I felt very guilty as I ran up to the study after breakfast; I had tried faithfully to look after the brothers and sisters, but I had neglected papa; and I am afraid, in the lowness of my spirits, that I gave a very faint knock on the door. After waiting a minute or two, I opened the door, as no answer came, and stepped into the study. Papa's breakfast, which had been sent up more than half an hour before, lay cold and untasted on his desk, and papa himself knelt on the hearth; there was no fire, and in the empty grate, laid criss-cross, were pages and pages of closely written manuscript. On the chair beside him, and on the floor, were more pages of manuscript in bundles. In my father's hand was a match, which he had just drawn and was about to apply to the papers. My heart gave a tremendous throb that seemed to send it right into my throat, and I sprang forward, crying out, "Oh, papa! _papa!_ surely you are not going to _burn_ the _Fetich_!" The match fell from papa's fingers, and he looked up at me with an expression that was half bewilderment, half relief. "Eh! burn _what_?" he said. "I--I--mean--were you going to burn--your book?" I remembered in time that he did not know we called it the Fetich. "Oh, papa," I pleaded, "_why_ are you doing this? Your wonderful book, that mamma was so proud of!"