suppose I must, but it does seem
unnecessary to disturb him."

"He won't be disturbed," said Mrs. Dale stoutly; "he isn't that kind.
There, now," she added, as Dr. Howe took up his hat and stick and went
gloomily out into the sunshine, "I shouldn't wonder if your father left
it to Gifford to break it to him, after all. It is curious how Archibald
shrinks from it, and he a clergyman! I could do it, easily. Now, Lois,
you run along; I want to talk to Helen."

But the rector had more strength of purpose than his sister thought. His
keen eyes blurred once or twice in his walk to the village, and his lip
almost trembled, but when he reached Mr. Denner's bedside he had a firm
hand to give his friend. The doctor had left a note for him, saying the
end was near, and he read this before he went into the sick-room.

Mr. Denner had failed very perceptibly since the day before. He looked
strangely little in the great bed, and his brown eyes had grown large and
bright. But he greeted the rector with courteous cordiality, under which
his faint voice faltered, and almost broke.

"How are you to-day, Denner?" his friend said, sitting down on the edge
of the bed, and taking the sick man's hand in his big warm grasp.

"Thank you," replied Mr. Denner, with labored breath, "I am doing
nicely."

"Has Giff been here this morning?" asked Dr. Howe.

"Yes," the lawyer answered. "He has gone home for an hour. Mary takes
excellent care of me, and I felt I was really keeping him too much from
his aunts. For his stay is limited, you know, and I am afraid I have been
selfish in keeping him so much with me."

"No, no," the rector said, "it is a pleasure for him to be with you; it
is a pleasure for any of us. Poor little Lois is dreadfully distressed
about you,--she longs to come and nurse you herself; and Helen,--Helen
came last night, you know,--she wants to be of some use, too."

"Oh, well, now, dear me," remonstrated Mr. Denner feebly, "Miss Lois must
not have a moment's uneasiness about me,--not a moment's. Pray tell her I
am doing nicely; and it is really of no consequence in the world,--not
the slightest."

Then Mr. Denner began to speak of Gifford's kindness, and how good every
one in the village had been to him; even Mary had softened wonderfully in
the last few days, though of this the sick man did not speak, for it
would seem to imply that Mary had not always been all she might be, and,
in view of her present kindness, it would