ghtly and the cord of love
bound them together as strongly as did ever the same ties bind their
sturdy Scotch ancestors into clans.

Auntee (for that was Alsie's baby name for the aunt, with whom so many
happy hours had been spent) rose half way up from the bed with a
somewhat startled movement, but the sight of the stricken little face at
her side seemed to bring back afresh the reminder of her pain, and she
again buried her face in the pillow with a sob.

After a few moments, however, the young woman put her arm tenderly
around the little namesake and tried to explain.

"I did not intend to burden you, Alsie dear, with my grief, but I feel
so sad and somehow I just couldn't keep it shut in any longer--it _had_
to come out. But I thought you were playing with your little friend
Margaret, and I knew mother had started for the drug store on an errand
which would surely keep her an hour."

"Auntee, are you so sad because dear Uncle James has gone away? You know
grandma said he had been called to his heavenly home, and there are lots
of us left to make you bright and happy."

"So there are, Alsie, and I will try to take courage in that thought,
for surely God wouldn't take another loved one away from us so soon--so
soon." The last two words were spoken pensively and as though she was
unconscious of the presence of the child. Little Alsie's face became
white.

"O, Auntee, you don't mean that dear grandfather"--her voice faltered
and she finished in a whisper--"is worse?"

Auntee regained her self-possession in a moment and said hastily,
"No, dear child, no worse. But sit down with me and I will tell you all
about it. You must promise not to mention it to grandmother, however,
for we will have to be brave together." Then, sitting side by side in
the pretty little blue bedroom where only a few months before so many
joyous hours had been spent in fixing everything up daintily to meet
the gaze of returned travelers, Aunt Alice related to young Alice the
story of her trip to the doctor's that very day, and how he had told
her that the chances were against the recovery of the beloved father
and grandfather, lying so patiently on his bed of pain in the south
bedchamber.

His health had begun to fail in the spring, but grandfather, with his
broad shoulders, military bearing, and six feet of noble manhood, had
never been sick within the memory of either of these two, and it was
hard for them--or, indeed, any other--to conc