owly around.

"Andrew, my son, my only son," and he stretched out his hands. "Tell
Primrose--tell her to burn the ungodly thing. I am glad thou hast come.
Now I shall get strong and well. I was waiting for thee."

Andrew Henry held his father's hand. It was very cool, and the pulse
was gone. That was the end of life, of what might have been love.

Rachel met her cousin in the morning with a strange gleam of fear in her
eyes. He was very gentle. After breakfast he had to go into town and
report, and get leave of absence, and inform some of the friends, Madam
Wetherill among the rest.

He had seen much of men and the world in the last few years, and learned
many things, among others that a life of repression was not religion.
And he knew now it was the love of God, and not the estimate of one's
fellowmen, that did the great work of the world and smoothed the way of
the dying. From henceforth he should live a true man's life. But his
mother would be his first care always.

Some days afterward Mr. Chew sent for him and gave him the will.

"I did not make it," he explained. "I refused to write out one that I
considered unjust, and later on he brought this to me for safe keeping.
I sincerely hope it is not the same. Take it home and read it, and then
come to me."

It was made shortly after Andrew had joined the army, and the reasons
were given straightforwardly why he left his son Andrew Henry the sum of
only one hundred dollars. In consideration of the sonlike conduct and
attention to the farm, and respect shown to himself, and Lois, his wife,
the two great barns and one hundred acres of land, meadow and orchard,
west of the barns, to Penn Morgan, the son of his wife's sister. To
Rachel Morgan, for similar care and respect, the dwelling house and one
barn and one hundred acres, and this to be chargable with Lois Henry's
home and support. Another hundred and twenty acres to Faith Morgan, and
the stock equally divided among the three. The moneys out at interest to
be his wife's share.

Lois Henry went to her son.

"I am sorry," she said. "He repented of something, and I think he meant
to have the will destroyed. He was very stern after thou didst leave,
and sometimes hard to Penn, who had much patience. I think his mind was
not quite right, and occasionally it drowsed away strangely."

"He was glad to see me. That was like a blessing. And we came to look at
matters in such different lights. He was home here with the