saw was to see Nat from his wagon,
or wheeled chair, reaching out to take care of papa in the bed. Nobody
else could give him his medicine so well; nobody could prepare his meals
for him, after he was too weak to use a knife and fork, so well as Nat.
How he could do all this with only one hand--for he could not bend himself
in his chair enough to use the hand farthest from the bed--nobody could
understand; but he did, and the very last mouthful of wine papa swallowed
he took, the morning he died, from poor Nat's brave little hand, which did
not shake nor falter, though the tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"Papa lived nearly a year; but the last nine months he was in bed, and he
never spoke a loud word after that birthday night when we had been so
happy in the study. He died in November, on a dreary stormy day. I never
shall forget it. He had seemed easier that morning, and insisted on our
all going out to breakfast together and leaving him alone, the doors being
open between the study and the dining-room. We had hardly seated ourselves
at the table when his bell rang. Aunt Abby reached him first. It could not
have been a minute, but he did not know her. For the first and only time
in my life I forgot Nat, and was out of the room when I heard him sob.
Dear Nat! not even then would he think of himself. I turned back. 'Oh,
don't stop to take me, Dot,' he said. 'Run!' But I could not; and when I
reached the door, pushing his chair before me, all was over. However, the
doctor said that, even if we had been there at the first, papa could not
have bid us good-by; that the death was from instantaneous suffocation,
and that he probably had no consciousness of it himself. Papa's life had
been insured for five thousand dollars and he had saved, during the three
years we had lived at Maynard's Mills, about one thousand more. This was
all the money we had in the world.

"Mr. Maynard had been very kind throughout papa's illness. He had
persuaded the church to continue the salary; every day he had sent
flowers, and grapes, and wine, and game, and everything he could think of
that papa could eat; and, what was kindest of all, he had come almost
every day to talk with him and cheer him up. But he did not mean to let
his kindness stop here. The day after the funeral he came to see us, to
propose to adopt me. I forgot to say that Aunt Abby was to be married soon
and would take little Abby with her; so they were provided for, and the
o