cel.
Your father was everything to me," he continued, his voice getting
fainter, and his speech more confused, as he went on, "and--and I never
expected to see him again in this world. And so you have come over to
see me, Daniel? Give me your hand. Come over to see me, and there are no
lights! God has been very good to me, brother, and I begin to think He
will call me into his presence soon."

Valentine started up, and it was really more in order to carry out the
old man's desires, so solemnly expressed, than from any joy of
possession, that he put the parcel into his pocket before he rang for
the nurse and went to fetch John.

He had borne a part in the last-sustained conversation the old man ever
held, and that day month, in just such a snow-storm as had fallen about
his much-loved brother, his stately white head was laid in the grave.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DEAD FATHER ENTREATS.

"_Prospero._ I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one."

_The Tempest._

Valentine rose early the morning after the funeral; John Mortimer had
left him alone in the house, and gone home to his children.

John had regarded the impending death of his father more as a loss and a
misfortune than is common. He and the old man, besides being constant
companions, had been very intimate friends, and the rending of the tie
between them was very keenly felt by the son.

Nothing, perhaps, differs more than the amount of affection felt by
different people; there is no gauge for it--language cannot convey it.
Yet instinctive perception shows us where it is great. Some feel little,
and show all that little becomingly; others feel much, and reveal
scarcely anything; but, on the whole, men are not deceived, each gets
the degree of help and sympathy that was due to him.

Valentine had been very thoughtful for John; the invitations and orders
connected with a large funeral had been mainly arranged by him.

Afterwards, he had been present at the reading of the will, and had been
made to feel that the seventeen hundred pounds in that parcel which he
had not yet opened could signify nothing to a son who was to enter on
such a rich inheritance as it set forth and specified.

Still he wished his uncle had not kept the giving of it a secret, and,
while he was dressing, the details of that last conversation, the
falling snow, the failing light, and the high, thin voice, changed, and
yet so much more impressive for