I know I got to vacate this earthly
tenement pretty soon, and though I've had good times and sorry in the
building I ain't objectin' to quit. Seems like a new dwellin' house'll
give us more light and space. It's many times I've wondered ef mebbe the
spirits of them that love us ain't always hoverin' close, ef only we had
the right kind of windows to look out at 'em with. Why, child, there's
certainly been times when I've felt my Em'ly's arms a-holdin' me up and
her wings brushin' my face. She's done been helpin' me about you lately;
'cause you see I know she'd always want me to do anything that'd make me
comfortable and----"

But Elizabeth was not listening to the old man's soliloquy. She was
thinking of herself, trying to tear out the tendrils that had grown so
close about Uncle Ambrose's house, which had lately come to seem so like
her own. So finally when she could bear the pain no longer she rose and
started stumbling from the room.

Uncle Ambrose called out after her. "Don't go, 'Lizabeth, and don't try
to stop cryin'. Tears is nachural to some women and you sure are one of
'em. I ought to be used to 'em by now. 'Lizabeth, I don't want you to
leave me; I want you to stay by me till my trumpet sounds." Elizabeth
shook her head.

"Think you got to go 'cause of what Susan Jr. said?" Uncle Ambrose's
long nose twitched between amusement and scorn. "Good Lord! why is it
the good women that is so afeard of talk?" he muttered to himself. "But
thinkin' it all out kireful, 'Lizabeth, I ain't able to let you go. I
can't stan' livin' 'thout female aid, and there ain't no use me tryin'.
So now you listen to me. When I'm out o' this bed, and it'll be
to-morrow, do you think you could bring yourself to marry me?" Uncle
Ambrose laughed. "Don't git scaired, child; ef you ain't heard them
words before it ain't the first time I've said 'em. But don't you answer
me too quick; think it over and when you come back after fixin' my
supper's time enough, for I ain't yet told you all I been steddyin'
over, believin' the rest'd come in better later on."

Then while Elizabeth was away this lover of many women lay with his dim
old eyes still steadfast upon the picture of her who after all was "the
only woman." "You feel I'm doin' what's best, don't you, honey?" he said
with the completeness of a perfect union. "She's poor and lonesome and
homely, but I've worked it out so it'll be all right."

Afterward, when Uncle Ambrose discovered that