ener.

"Oh, how lovely was the morning,
Brightly beamed the sun above."

"What was that last song?" inquired the father.

The two singers looked at each other as if they had been caught in some
forbidden act.

"Why"--hesitated Lucy, "that's a Sunday School song."

"A 'Mormon' song?"

"Yes."

"Sing--it again," he said as he lay back on his pillows, closed his eyes
and listened.

"Do you know any more--'Mormon' songs?"

Lucy, of course, did not know many. Chester managed "O, my Father," and
one or two more. Then Lucy closed the piano and went back to her father,
where she stood smoothing gently his gray hair. Thus they talked and
read and sang a little more, while the rain fell gently without.

"This is a beautiful country," said Chester, looking out of the window.
"I do not blame people who have money, desiring to live here." Lucy came
to the window also, and they stood looking out on the rain-washed green.
The father lay still in his chair, and presently he went to sleep.
Chester and Lucy then retired to a corner, and carried on their
conversation in low tones. Faint noises from other parts of the house
came to them. From without, only the occasional shrill whistle of a
locomotive disturbed the silence. The fire burned low in the grate.

Suddenly, the father awoke with a start. "I tell you he is my son," he
said aloud. "I am his father, and I ought to father him--my heart goes
out--my son--"

"What is it, father?" cried Lucy, running to him, and putting her arm
around his shoulders.

The father looked about, fully awakened.

"I was only dreaming," he explained. "Did I talk in my sleep?"

Just then Uncle Gilbert came in. He announced that tomorrow he would of
necessity have to leave for Liverpool. It would be a short trip only; he
would be back in two or three days, during which all of them should
continue to make themselves comfortable.

"George, here, is getting along famously," he declared. "A few more days
of absolute rest, and you'll be all right, eh, brother?"

"I think so."

Aunt Sarah now announced luncheon, and they all filed out of the room.

That evening the two brothers were alone. "I want to talk to you," the
visitor had said; and his brother was willing that he should. Evidently,
something weighed heavily on his mind, some imaginary trouble, brought
on by his weakened physical condition.

"Now, what is it, brother," said Gilbert as they sat comfortably in
their room.

"Y