ild,--where I can watch your face. I have
something to say to you. I cannot die with this weight upon my heart."

"What weight, papa?"

"The uncertainty about your future," says the dying man, with some
excitement. "How can I leave you, my little one, to fight this cruel
world alone?"

"Do not think of me," says the girl, in a voice so unnaturally calm as
to betray the fact that she is making a supreme effort to steel
herself against the betrayal of emotion of any kind. By and by, will
there not be long years in which to make her moan, and weep, and
lament, and give herself wholly up to that grim giant, Despair? "Put
me out of your thoughts altogether. I shall do very, very well. I
shall manage to live as others have lived before me."

"Your Aunt Elizabeth will take you in for a little while, and
then----then----"

"I shall go out as a governess. I shall get into some kind, pleasant
family, and every one will be very good to me," says the girl, still
in a resolutely cheerful tone. "It will just suit me. I shall like it.
Do you understand me, papa? I shall like it better than anything,
because children are always fond of me."

The father's face grows sadder, even grayer, as she speaks. He sighs
in a troubled fashion, and strokes feebly the little fragile hand that
clings so desperately to his, while the damps of death lie thick upon
his brow.

"A governess," he murmurs, with some difficulty. "While you are only a
child yourself? What a hard, hard fate! Is there no friend to help and
comfort you?"

"I have a friend," replies she, steadily. "You have often heard me
mention her. You remember the name, now,--Clarissa Peyton? She was my
best friend at school, and I know she will do what she can for me. She
will be able to find me some nice children, and----"

"Friendship,"--interrupts he, bitterly,--"it is a breath,--a name. It
will fail you when you most need it."

"Clarissa will not fail me," replies she, slowly, though with a
feeling of deadly sickness at her heart. "And, besides, you must not
think of me as a governess always, papa. I shall, perhaps, marry
somebody, some day."

The dying man's eyes grow a shade brighter; it is a mere flicker, but
it lasts for a moment, long enough to convince her she has indeed
given some poor hope to cheer his last hours.

"Yes; to marry somebody," he repeats, wistfully, "that will be
best,--to get some good man, some kindly, loving heart to protect you
and make a safe s