day!

"Does it pain you, my talking thus? Because if so, we will cease."

"No--go on."

"That is right. I thought, this attack having been somewhat worse than
my last, some one ought to be told. It has been a comfort to me to
tell you--a great comfort, Phineas. Always remember that."

I have remembered it.

"Now, one thing more, and my mind is at ease. You see, though I may
have years of life--I hope I shall--many busy years--I am never sure of
a day, and I have to take many precautions. At home I shall be quite
safe now." He smiled again, with evident relief. "And rarely I go
anywhere without having one of my boys with me. Still, for fear--look
here."

He showed me his pocket-book; on a card bearing his name and address
was written in his own legible hand, "HOME, AND TELL MY WIFE CAREFULLY."

I returned the book. As I did so, there dropped out a little note--all
yellow and faded--his wife's only "love-letter,"--signed, "Yours
sincerely, Ursula March."

John picked it up, looked at it, and put it back in its place.

"Poor darling! poor darling!" He sighed, and was silent for a while.
"I am very glad Guy has come home; very glad that my little Maud is so
happily settled. Hark! how those children are laughing!"

For the moment a natural shade of regret crossed the father's face, the
father to whom all the delights of home had been so dear. But it soon
vanished.

"How merry they are!--how strangely things have come about for us and
ours! As Ursula was saying to-night, at this moment we have not a
single care."

I grasped at that, for Dr. K---- had declared that if John had a quiet
life--a life without many anxieties--he might, humanly speaking, attain
a good old age.

"Ay, your father did. Who knows? we may both be old men yet, Phineas."

And as he rose, he looked strong in body and mind, full of health and
cheer--scarcely even on the verge of that old age of which he spoke.
And I was older than he.

"Now, will you come with me to say good-night to the children?"

At first I thought I could not--then, I could. After the rest had
merrily dispersed, John and I stood for a long time in the empty
parlour, his hand on my shoulder, as he used to stand when we were
boys, talking.

What we said I shall not write, but I remember it, every word. And
he--I KNOW he remembers it still.

Then we clasped hands.

"Good-night, Phineas."

"Good-night, John."

CHAPTER XL

Friday, the first