the
stairway. I went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Blossom stood there.

"I have worried all day about the baby," she said, excitedly.
"Fortunately, Mr. Blossom was called downtown this evening, and I have
run in to ask how our precious baby is. I must go away at once, for he
does not care for children, you know, and I would not have him know how
dear this babe has grown to me!"

Mrs. Blossom stood on the threshold as she said these words. And then
she saw the familiar form of the dear old gentleman bending over the
cradle, holding the baby's hands in his. Mr. Blossom had recognized his
wife's voice and heard her words.

"Mary!" he cried, and he turned and faced her. She said, "Oh,
John!"--that was all, and her head drooped upon her breast. So there
they stood before each other, confronted by the revelation which they had
thought buried in long and many years.

She was the first to speak, for women are braver and stronger than men.
She accused herself and took all the blame. But he would not listen to
her self-reproaches. And they spoke to each other--I know not what
things, only that they were tender and sweet and of consolation. I
remember that at the last he put his arm about her as if he had not been
an aged man and she were not white-haired and bowed, but as if they two
were walking in the springtime of their love.

"It is God's will," he said, "and let us not rebel against it. The
journey to the end is but a little longer now; we have come so far
together, and surely we can go on alone."

"No, not alone," I said, for the inspiration came to me then. "Our
little child yonder--God has lent this lambkin to our keeping--share her
love with us. There is so much, so very much you can do for her which we
cannot do, for we are poor, and you are rich. Help us to care for her
and share her love with us, and she shall be your child and ours."

That was the compact between us fifteen years ago, and they have been
happy, very happy years. Blossom--we call her Blossom, after the dear
old friends who have been so good to her and to us--she comes from school
to-night, and to-morrow we shall sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with our
daughter. We always speak of her as "our daughter," for, you know, she
belongs now no more to Cordelia and me than to Mr. and Mrs. Blossom.

DEATH AND THE SOLDIER

A soldier, who had won imperishable fame on the battlefields of his
country, was confronted by a gaunt str