word I want to hear."

* * * * *

Upstairs, the slender figure on the bed stirred from the brief sleep
which had claimed it. Father Davy opened his eyes again upon the firelit
room and the pleasant comfort which surrounded him.

"Before they come," he thought, "I must tell my Father how I feel about
it. I was too tired even to pray. But I am quite rested now."

He slipped down gently to his knees and closed his eyes, folding his
thin hands on the heavy white counterpane before him.

"Dear God," he said, "I have the desire of my heart--the answer to my
prayers--and I am very glad to-night. Yet Thou knowest my heart is
heavy, too--with longing for my Phoebe. Tell her, Father, that her child
is happy in the love of the best man she could have asked for. And tell
her that David loves and longs for her to-night with the love that will
never die. For that love that will not die in spite of years and pain I
thank Thee. If it may be, give our child the same blessed experience.
And teach us to love and serve Thee, world without end, Amen."

CHAPTER XXIII

WHY NOT?

"There's just one more thing to be settled," observed Dr. Jefferson
Craig. "While we are settling things, suppose we attend to that."

He stood upon the hearthrug before the fire in his library, elbow on
chimney piece, looking down upon his two guests. It was eight o'clock of
the evening following that upon which Mr. David Warne and Georgiana had
arrived at the big New York house in the old-time, downtown square.
Although they had been under the hospitable roof for more than
twenty-four hours it was the first occasion on which the three had been
together for more than a few minutes at a time.

On the previous evening in an upstairs room had been enacted a little
scene which would live forever in the memories of them all; but Doctor
Craig, perceiving with trained eyes the signs of growing fatigue in his
frail friend after the unwonted strain of the day and its necessarily
emotional climax, had gently but firmly insisted on withdrawing at an
early hour. Georgiana had remained with her father, herself content to
have the strange and wonderful day end in the old, simple, and natural
way in which her days had ended for so long. She had felt, as she
performed her customary daughterly offices for the beloved invalid, that
she had quite enough to take with her to her own pillow to insure its
being the happiest upon which she