ot find the leather case until Gifford put it
into his hand--"if you would be so good as to accept this; and will you
open it, if you please, Miss Ruth?"

She did so, with trembling fingers. It was a daguerreotype of Mr. Denner;
the high neckcloth and the short-waisted, brass-buttoned coat and
waistcoat showed its age, as well as the dimness of the glass and the
fresh boyish face of the young man of thirty.

"What--what was I speaking of, Gifford?" said Mr. Denner.

"You gave my aunt Ruth the picture, sir."

"Oh, yes, just so, just so. I merely wished to add that I desired to
present it to Miss Deborah's sister,--though it is of no value, not the
least value; but I should be honored by its acceptance. And perhaps you
will be good enough to--to convey the assurance of my esteem to Miss
Deborah. And Gifford--my friend Gifford is to give her the miniature of
my little sister."

"Yes," said Miss Ruth, who was crying softly.

"Not that I have--have changed my mind," said Mr. Denner, "but it is not
improper, I am sure, that Miss Deborah's sister should give me--if she
will be so good--her hand, that I may say good-by?"

Miss Ruth did not quite understand, until Gifford motioned to her to lay
her little hand in that feeble one which was groping blindly towards her.

Mr. Denner's eyes were very dim.

"I--I am very happy," he murmured. "I thank you, Ruth;" and then, a
moment after, "If you will excuse me, I think I will rest for a few
moments."

Still holding Miss Ruth's hand, he turned his head in a weary way towards
the light, and softly closed his eyes.

Mr. Denner rested.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Perhaps the majesty of Death is better understood when some little soul
is swallowed up in the great Mystery than when one is taken on whom Life
has laid her bright touch, and made famous and necessary.

Even in quiet Ashurst, Mr. Denner was, as he himself would have, said, of
no consequence, and his living was not felt in any way; yet when he was
gone, a sudden knowledge came of how much he was to them, and how great a
blank he left. So Death creates greatness.

It was well for Lois Howe, in those first sad days, that her cousin was
with her, or the reaction from the excitement of anxiety into hopeless
grief might have been even more prostrating than it was. All the comfort
and tenderness Helen could give her in her helpless self-reproach were
hers, though she as well as Gifford never sought to make the sorrow less