ow of one child, and then, while the hot
breath was yet warm upon his lips, pressing them to the cold face of
the other.

All day Margaret sat by her dying brother, praying that he might be
spared until Walter came. Her prayer was answered; for at nightfall
Walter was with them. Half an hour after his return Willie died; but
ere his right hand dropped lifeless by his side he held it up to view,
saying:

"Father--give it to nobody but father."

After a moment Margaret, taking within hers the fast-stiffening hand,
gently unclosed the fingers, and found the crumpled piece of paper on
which Carrie had written to her father.

CHAPTER XI.

MARGARET AND HER FATHER.

'Twas midnight--midnight after the burial. In the library of the old
homestead sat its owner, his arms resting upon the table, and his face
reclining upon his arms. Sadly was he reviewing the dreary past, since
first among them death had been, bearing away his wife, the wife of
his first only love. Now, by her grave there was another, on which the
pale moonbeams and the chill night-dews were falling, but they could
not disturb the rest of the two who, side by side in the same coffin,
lay sleeping, and for whom the father's tears were falling fast, and
the father's heart was bleeding.

"Desolate, desolate--all is desolate," said the stricken man. "Would
that I, too, were asleep with my lost ones!"

There was a rustling sound near him, a footfall, and an arm was thrown
lovingly around his neck. Margaret's tears were on his cheek, and
Margaret's voice whispered in his ear, "Dear father, we must love each
other better now."

Margaret had not retired, and on passing through the hall, had
discovered the light gleaming through the crevice of the library door.
Knowing that her father must be there, she had come in to comfort him.
Long the father and child wept together, and then Margaret, drying her
tears said:

"It is right--all right; mother has two, and you have two, and though
the dead will never return to us, we, in God's good time, will return
to them."

"Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go," said Mr. Hamilton.

"I am weary, weary, Margaret; my life is one scene of bitterness. Oh,
why, why was I left to do it?"

Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made no answer; and
after he had become somewhat composed, thinking this a good
opportunity for broaching the subject which had so troubled Carrie's
dying moments, she drew from her bosom