re you knew her--Julia will forget all
that has come between. Julia would consent to marry you if you asked her
to be your wife. O Martin, I should die so much happier if I thought you
would ever marry Julia, and go to live in the house I helped to get
ready for you!"

Julia's head had dropped upon my mother's shoulder, and her face was
hidden, while my mother's eyes sought mine beseechingly. I was
irresistibly overcome by this new proof of her love for both of us, for
I knew well what a struggle it must have been to her to gain the mastery
over her proper pride and just resentment. I knelt down beside her,
clasping her hand and my mother's in my own.

"Mother, Julia," I said, "I promise that if ever I can be true in heart
and soul to a wife, I will ask Julia to become mine. But it may be many
years hence; I dare not say how long. God alone knows how dear Olivia is
to me. And Julia is too good to waste herself upon so foolish a fellow.
She may change, and see some one she can love better."

"That is nonsense, Martin," answered Julia, with a ring of the old
sharpness in her tone; "at my age I am not likely to fall in love
again.--Don't be afraid, aunt; I shall not change, and I will take care
of Martin. His home is ready, and he will come back to me some day, and
it will all be as you wish."

I know that promise of ours comforted her, for she never lamented over
my coming solitude again.

I have very little more I can say about her. When I look back and try to
write more fully of those last, lingering days, my heart fails me. The
darkened room, the muffled sounds, the loitering, creeping, yet too
rapid hours! I had no time to think of Julia, of Olivia, or of myself; I
was wrapped up in her.

One evening--we were quite alone--she called me to come closer to her,
in that faint, far-off voice of hers, which seemed already to be
speaking from another world. I was sitting so near to her that I could
touch her with my hand, but she wanted me nearer--with my arm across
her, and my cheek against hers.

"My boy," she whispered, "I am going."

"Not yet, mother," I cried; "not yet! I have so much to say. Stay with
me a day or two longer."

"If I could," she murmured, every word broken with her panting breath,
"I would stay with you forever! Be patient with your father, Martin. Say
good-by for me to him and Julia. Don't stir. Let me die so!"

"You shall not die, mother," I said, passionately.

"There is no pain," she w