ooking for you to go to pieces and I propose to be on the job."

"Uncle Denny," said Pen quietly, "I shall not go to pieces. I feel the
tragedy of Sara's life very deeply and I am very sad over it all. But
I'm not a widow. I'm a nurse and friend whose job is over. It will be a
pitiful journey to take Sara back to his father. But I shall be with
dear Aunt Mary in New York. I shall get no rest unless I know that you
are with Jim in this critical moment of his career."

The two men looked at each other uncertainly. Suddenly Pen's voice
shook: "Oh, don't make me argue!"

Jim spoke slowly: "We never have regretted doing what Pen told us to,
Uncle Denny. It looks heartless, but I guess we'll have to obey."

"Me soul in me is like a whirling Dervish," said Uncle Denny, "with
both of you needing me so. You'll have to decide betwixt you."

"Then Uncle Denny will stay here and we will take you over for the five
o'clock morning train, Pen. Mrs. Flynn has packed your trunk and poor
Sara is ready for his last trip. When shall we look for your return,
little Penelope?"

Pen looked a little bewildered. "Why, there is no excuse for my coming
back. I shall stay with your mother until I get rested and then I must
find something to do."

Uncle Denny jumped up and stood with his back to the fireplace while Jim
leaned on the back of Pen's chair.

"Listen to me, children," said Dennis. "Of what use is it to beat about
the bush and refuse to speak what's in the heart of each of us? How can
we pretend that poor Sara's death is not God's own relief to him and us?
We can weep, as Pen says, over the tragedy of his life, but not that he
is gone. Your talk of going to work is nonsense, me sweet Pen. After a
few months you will marry Jim and have the happiness you have earned so
dearly."

Jim did not move. Pen's pale face turned scarlet. "Oh, Uncle Denny," she
cried, "don't talk to me of marriage! I love Jim dearly, but now this is
all over I have left only a deadly fear of marriage!"

"Pen! Pen!" exclaimed Uncle Denny. "What do you know of marriage? For
every unhappy marriage we hear of there are three of such sweet
companionship that its sharers hide it from the world as if 'twere too
sacred for the common gaze. The perfect friendship is between man and
woman and when you add to that the sacrament of body and soul, you have
the only heaven humans may know on earth. And 'tis enough. 'Tis full
compensation for all the ills of life."

"J