great many more
there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are
only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling
it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not
elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces
but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the
second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won't be
a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do,
however, till my time comes."

There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the
sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.

"It will not be to-night," said she softly. Then she sat down again.

"Cousin," said she gravely in a little, "you are not worrying about your
father, as though it may--not be well with him now?"

Elizabeth looked at her startled.

Betsey went on:

"I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and
another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge
himself on the Lord's side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting
himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where
has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and
actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since
ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them."

Elizabeth's face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were
falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.

"A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him
more than a little. I couldn't bear to have him miss the privilege--
deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He
appointed. He didn't consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I
said a word to him about it--at the time my father died that was.

"I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough--a hypocrite,
almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one
sense. But out Lord said, `Except ye be converted and become as little
children,' and he had the heart of a little child about some things,
more than any one I ever knew.

"Cousin, if I were to tell you--but I couldn't begin to tell you, all he
has done for us--for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and
for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he
needn't be thanked for. The patience h