“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen hours since she died, and to-morrow we shall go with her back to the home she left a few weeks since, and whither a telegram has preceded us telling them of our loss. Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it best, neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind, and visit me in the winter with her sister. I shall need her then so much, for the world will be doubly lonely,—Margaret gone, and the California sun shining down on Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to confess it here on paper, while more than once I have wished so much to tell it to him,—wished he would ask me again what he did by Anna’s grave, and I would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would say to him: “‘Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret’s children are a few years older, and then I will be yours, caring still for the little ones as I promised I would.’ “But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie and Bell far more than he does with me. He is going with us to Beechwood, and then in a few weeks’ time he too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of one who was to be my husband, that terrible something would not haunt me as it does, neither should I ask myself so constantly: “‘Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a mother I should care for her children?’” CHAPTER XIII. AT BEECHWOOD. _The Author’s Story._ The great house at Beechwood was closed, and the first September sunshine which lay so warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and curtained windows of what had been Margaret Russell’s home, and whither they were bringing her lifeless form. During the past week there had been hot, passionate tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish prayers made that God would spare the sick mother till her broken-hearted boy could tell how sorry he was for the angry words spoken to her, and for the many acts of disobedience which came thronging around him like so many accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie’s heart was almost crushed when he heard that his mother must die, and calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them kneel with him, and ask that God would give her back to them alive. And so with concern for Johnnie on their baby faces, rather than concern for their mother, the two little boys prayed that “God would make mamma well, and not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.” This was Ben’s idea, and it brought a world of comfort, making him ask Johnnie “if it wouldn’t be nicer after all to have Auntie than mamma.” “Perhaps it would, if I hadn’t been so _sassy_ to her that morning, twitting her about not caring for us like Auntie, and telling her to _dry up_. Oh, oh!” and the conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in his first real sorrow.