y ill himself and
wishes to leave his little daughter in safe hands; her mother was an
orphan, it seems, and the child has no relatives that he cares to leave
her with; her mother was an English girl, he was married in England. He
wishes me to come to him and take charge of the child."

"That is why you so suddenly chose California instead of Minnesota for
your winter?"

"Yes."

"Have you written to him?"

"Yes."

"Is he very ill?"

"Yes; he may never receive my letter."

"I would like to write to him," said Miss Prudence.

"Would you like to see the letter?"

"No; I would rather not. You have told me all?" with a slight quiver in
the firm voice.

"All excepting his message to you."

After a moment she asked: "What is it?"

"He wants you to take the guardianship of his child with me. I have not
told you all--he thinks we are married."

The brave voice trembled in spite of his stern self-control.

"Oh!" exclaimed Prudence, and then: "Why should he think that?" in a low,
hesitating voice.

"Because he knew me so well. Having only each other, it was natural, was
it not?"

"Perhaps so. Then that is all he says."

"Isn't that enough?"

"No, I want to know if he has repented, if he is another man. I am glad I
may write to him; I want to tell him many things. We will take care of
the little girl, John."

"If I am West and you are East--"

"Do you want to keep her with you?"

"What could I do with her? She will be a white elephant to me. I am not
her father; I do not think I understand girls--or boys, or men. I hardly
understand you, Prudence."

"Then I am afraid you never will. Isn't it queer how I always have a
little girl provided for me? Marjorie is growing up and now I have this
child, your niece, John, to be my little girl for a long time. I wonder
what her name is."

"He did tell me that! I may have passed over something else; you might
better see the letter."

"No; handwriting is like a voice, or a perfume to me--I could not bear it
to-night. John, I feel as if it would _kill_ me. It is so long ago--I
thought I was stronger--O, John," she leaned her head upon his arm and
sobbed convulsively like a little child.

He laid his hand upon her head as if she were indeed the little child,
and for a long time no words were spoken.

"Prudence, there is something else, there is the photograph of the little
girl--her mother named her Jeroma."

"I will take that," she said, lifting her head, "