sity in her father's mind, and the two men went about together,
like two old boys who had both been prisoners of war, and were cured of
ambition.

Milburn resumed his forest walks and bird-tamings, all traces of
ambition left his countenance, and he was as dead to business things as
if he had never risen above his forest origin.

He often talked of William Tilghman, and seemed to wish to see him,
though for no apparent purpose.

The Asiatic cholera, having begun to make annual visits to the United
States, singled out, one day, the wearer of the obsolete hat, and put to
the sternest test of affection and humanity the household at Teackle
Hall.

Whether from the respect his steady purposes had given them, or the
natural devotion in a sequestered society, no soul left his side.

But it brought the final visitation of poverty upon Vesta. Her school
was broken up in a day. She dismissed it herself, and calmly sat by her
husband's bed, to soothe his dying weakness, and await the providence of
God.

He rapidly passed through the stages of cramp and collapse, a nearly
perished pulse, and the cadaverous look of one already dead, yet his
intellect by the law of the disease, lived unimpaired.

"The stream cannot rise above the fountain," he spoke, huskily; "all we
can get from life is love. My darling, you have showered it on me, and
been thirsty all your days."

"I have been happy in my duty," Vesta said; "you have been kind to me
always. We have nothing to regret."

He wandered a little, though he looked at her, and seemed thinking of
his mother.

"Where can we go?" he muttered, pitifully; "I burned the dear old hut
down. It would have been a roof for my boy."

His chin trembled, as if he were about to cry, and sighed:

"Fader an' mammy's quarrelled; the mocking-bird won't sing. Ride for the
doctor! ride hard! Oh! oh! too late, little chillen! They'se both
dead!"

He returned to perfect knowledge in a moment, and fixed his eyes on
Vesta, saying,

"I leave you poor. I tried hard. Perhaps--"

His eye was here arrested by some conflict at the door, where Aunt
Hominy, notwithstanding her imperfect wits, was striving to keep guard.

"De debbil's measurin' him in! Measurin' him in at las'!" the old woman
said; "Miss Vessy's 'mos' free!"

"Admit me!" spoke a clear, familiar voice, "I must see him. Mr. Clayton
has won the lawsuit, and two hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars
damages! Cousin Meshach is rich agai