affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to you
herself, and in her name it is that I speak now.'

'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man. 'We will not wake
her. I should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile.
There is a smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and
changeless. I would have it come and go. That shall be in Heaven's
good time. We will not wake her.'

'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you
were Journeying together, far away--as she was at home, in the old
house from which you fled together--as she was, in the old cheerful
time,' said the schoolmaster.

'She was always cheerful--very cheerful,' cried the old man, looking
steadfastly at him. 'There was ever something mild and quiet about
her, I remember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature.'

'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this and in
all goodness, she was like her mother. You can think of, and remember
her?'

He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.

'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor. 'It is many years ago,
and affliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her
whose death contributed to make this child so dear to you, even before
you knew her worth or could read her heart? Say, that you could carry
back your thoughts to very distant days--to the time of your early
life--when, unlike this fair flower, you did not pass your youth alone.
Say, that you could remember, long ago, another child who loved you
dearly, you being but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother,
long forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last,
in your utmost need came back to comfort and console you--'

'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger, falling on
his knee before him; 'to repay your old affection, brother dear, by
constant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he
has never ceased to be when oceans rolled between us; to call to
witness his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days, whole
years of desolation. Give me but one word of recognition, brother--and
never--no never, in the brightest moment of our youngest days, when,
poor silly boys, we thought to pass our lives together--have we been
half as dear and precious to each other as we shall be from this time
hence!'

The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound