he brown carpet beneath, but there was no more fragrance, since the sap
had ceased to move through the secret channels and breathe balm into the
forest. Snow lay heavily upon the lower boughs and they broke, instead
of bending. When Spring danced through the world again, piping her
plaintive music upon the farthest hills, the pines were almost bare.

[Sidenote: As One]

"All through the sweet Summer the needles kept dropping. Every
frolicsome breeze of June carried some of them a little farther down the
road; every full moon shone more clearly through the barrier of the
pines. And at last, when the chill winds of Autumn chanted a requiem
through the forest, it was seen that the pines had long been dead, but
they so leaned together and their branches were so interlaced, that,
even in death, they stood as one.

"They had passed their lives together, they had borne the same burdens,
faced the same storms, and rejoiced in the same warmth of Summer sun.
One was not left, stricken, long after the other was dead; their last
grief was borne together and was lessened because it was shared. I stand
there sometimes now, where the two dead trees are leaning close
together, and as the wind sighs through the bare boughs, it chants no
dirge to me, but only a hymn of farewell.

[Sidenote: Together with Love]

"There is nothing in all the world, Barbara, that means so much as that
one word, 'together,' and when you add 'love' to it, you have heaven,
for God himself can give no more joy than to bring together two who
love, never to part again."

"Thank you," said Barbara, gently, after a pause.

"I thank you too," said Roger.

Ambrose North rose and offered his hand to Roger. "Good-night," he said.
"I am glad you came. Your father was my friend." Then he bent to kiss
Barbara. "Good-night, my dear."

"Friend," repeated Roger to himself, as the old man went out. "Yes,
friend who never betrayed you or yours." The boy thrilled with
passionate pride at the thought. Before the memory of his father his
young soul stood at salute.

Barbara's eyes followed her father fondly as he went out and down the
hall to his own room. When his door closed, Roger came to the other
chair, sat down, and took her hand.

"It's not really necessary," explained Barbara, with a faint pink upon
her cheeks. "I shall probably recover, even if my hand isn't held all
the time."

"But I want to," returned Roger, and she did not take her hand away. Her
chee