um. The thought of deserting her in her
extremity never occurred to them.

Mrs. Lloyd spoke of her that night, when she and Robert were talking
together in the library.

"They are good folks, to keep on doing for that poor woman in the
asylum," she said.

"They would never desert a dog that belonged to them," Robert
answered, fervently. "I tell you that trait is worth a good many
others, Aunt Lizzie."

"I guess it is," said his aunt. Then another paroxysm of pain seized
her. She looked at Robert with a convulsed, speechless face. He held
her hands more tightly, his own face contracting in sympathy, and
watched his aunt with a sort of angry helplessness. But he felt as
if he wanted to fight something for the sake of this poor,
oppressed, innocent creature; indeed, he felt fairly blasphemous.
But this time the pain passed quickly, and Mrs. Lloyd looked at her
nephew with an expression of relief and gentleness which was almost
angelic. When the pain was over she thought again of the Brewsters,
and how they would not have forsaken her in her misery, had she
belonged to them, any more than they had forsaken the insane aunt.

"They are good folks," said she, "and that is the main thing. That
is the main thing to consider when you are marrying into a family,
Robert. It is more than riches and position. The power they've got
of loving and standing by each other is worth more than anything
else."

"You are right, Aunt Lizzie, I guess there's no doubt of that," said
Robert.

"And that girl's beautiful," said Mrs. Lloyd. She gazed at the young
man with a delicate understanding and sympathy which was almost
beyond that of a sweetheart. Robert felt as if a soft hand of
tenderness and blessing were laid on his inmost heart. He looked at
her like a grateful child.

"There isn't anybody like her, is there, Aunt Lizzie?" he asked.

"No, I don't think there is, dear boy," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I do think
she is the sweetest little thing I ever saw in my life."

Robert brought his aunt's hand to his lips and kissed it. It seemed
to him for a minute as if the love and sympathy of this martyr were
almost more precious than the love of Ellen herself.

He realized when he was in his own room, and the house was quiet,
how much he loved his aunt, and how hard her pain and probably
inevitable doom were for him to bear. Then something came to him
which he had never felt before--a great, burning anxiety and
tenderness and terror over E