of the inspiration of my youth: it comes with a
terrible penalty."

I could believe it, for his face expressed such abasement and despair
as I had never dreamed of.

"I know," he continued, his voice broken and husky, "that I shadow
Helen's life. I know that if I had died last night she would be a
luckier girl to-day than she is now. But I sha'n't last long, Floyd.
Put your finger on my pulse."

I did so, and was obliged to grope for the uncertain, slow beating at
his wrist. It seemed as if so little life was there it might easily
flicker and go out at any moment.

"I may die at any time," said he, putting my unspoken thought into
words. "Dr. Sharpe tells me not to count on the morrow. What cruelty
it would be, then, to deprive me of my grandchild! What could I do
without her? What would become of me, living alone, with no company
but the gibbering shapes mocking at me out of the corners?" He cowered
all in a heap and looked up at me with clasped hands. "Let her stay,"
he went on imploringly. "It is only for a little while, and then
everything will be hers--this house and these grounds, my house in New
York and blocks of stores, all my pictures, my statues, my books.
Why, I tell you, Floyd, I am worth more than a million of dollars in
invested property that brings me in a return of ten per cent. It is
all for her. I save half my income every year to buy new mortgages
and stocks, that she may be the richer. I think," he exclaimed with a
sudden burst of feeling, "that such wealth as I shall give her might
atone for a great deal. Remember, Floyd, it is only a little while
that I shall burden her: let her stay."

He was pleading with me as if I were the arbiter of his fate. He had
grasped my arm, and his glittering eyes were fastened on me with the
intensity of despair in their expression.

"Why, Mr. Raymond," said I gently, "I have nothing to do with Helen's
going or staying. If you fear that I shall inform Mr. Floyd about
what--what happened yesterday, you do me injustice. I shall tell him
nothing. I have no right to say a word about anything that takes place
in your house."

"You are a good boy," said Mr. Raymond, with an expression of relief
relaxing his convulsed features. "I do not wonder that James loves you
as his own son--that it is the wish of his heart that you should grow
up with Helen, learn to love her, and marry her at last."

I listened doubtfully: it did not occur to me that his words had
any fo