know, of course, that she
suffers from weakness of the heart. At present that weakness springs
from no organic source, but of late there have been symptoms which make
me fear that the functional mischief may be developed into the more
serious organic form of disease, should any shock be given her. It is
that fear which haunts my life--I could not live without your mother,
child. Effie, child. I could not live without her."

The doctor's voice suddenly broke--he bowed his head on his hands, and a
broken sort of groan escaped his lips.

"We'll take all possible care of her," said Effie. "She shall not have
any pain, nor fear, nor anxiety."

"I know you will do your best," said the doctor; "but if you leave
her----"

"I'll never leave her if it is to injure her--there, I have promised."

"You are a good girl. I trust you. I lean on you. Your mother could not
live through an anxiety--a great fear, a great trouble would kill her."

"It shan't come," said Effie.

"God grant it may not come," said the doctor in his husky voice.

He rose suddenly to his feet.

"I must go to bed," he said. "I have not had a real proper sleep for
nights and nights. By the way, Effie, you know, of course, that my life
is insured for a thousand pounds. If--if at any time that should be
needed, it will be there; it is best for you to know."

"I wish you would not talk about it, father."

"Very well, I won't; but talking about things doesn't bring trouble any
nearer. I hold it as an article of faith that each man should arrange
all he can for the future of his family. Arranging for the future never
hastens matters. There is a God above. He has led me all my days. I
trust Him absolutely. I submit to His mighty will."

The doctor left the room--his broad back was bowed--he walked slowly.

Effie stood near the door of the little parlor, watching him, until his
gray head was lost to view. Then she went back and sat on the old
horse-hair sofa, with her hands clasped tightly before her.

"My father is the best man in the world," she murmured under her breath.
"I never met anyone like my father--so simple--so straightforward--so
full of real feeling--so broad in his views. Talk of a sequestered life
making a man narrower; there never was a man more open to real
conviction than father. The fact is, no girl ever had better parents
than I have; and the wonderful thing is that they give me leave to go,
and take their blessing with me. It is won