Year: 1872

! AeS@*S
trate that he could scarcely find strength to
murmur his beloved grandchild's name.


"Here I am, my dearest grandpapa," she
said, bending over him. He smiled feebly,
and tried to speak, but the effort was too much
for him, and closing his eyes again he lay so
motionless, and with such death-like pallor
on his worn, sunken face, that for moment
she almost thought he had ceased to breathe.
The end, however, was not yet. For one
or two days he fingered, the fame Of life
Pickering more and more feebly, until at last
it went out so gradually that those watching
him were scarcely conscious when the last
faint spark had vanished.


Ethel's grief was sincere and deep. Du-
ring the fourteen months that she had spent
under his roof, she had learned to love him
warmly and truly, and she had received moth
ing but kindness and affection at his hands.
Moreover he was her sole near relative, ex-
cept her sister, and she felt that she was now
without protector or counselor in the world.


"Ethel," Minnie asked that evening, when
they we're together in their room, and Ethel.
completely worn out, was lying down on the
couch, "what do you suppose we shall do now?
can we 20 on living here by ourselves"


"I don't know Minnie; can't think about
anything just yet" was the weary reply.


"You never can think, whenI want you to-"
said her sister little pettishly. Il don't see
that it is unnatural or unfeeling to wish to
have some idea of what we are going to do.
For one thing, suppose Arly can't 60 on
staying here now."


Ethel made no rejoinder, and Minnie, find
ing she could obtain no satisfaction from her,
wandered disconsolately off to the library.
Here she found Arly, sorrowing for bis friend
and protector as she had never seen him sor-
row before, except for his brothers loss. She
did not quite understand the impulse that led
her to approach him and lay her hand on his
shoulder-a thing she had never done before,
and of which moment after she felt little
ashamed. Arly did not move or speak, but
checked his tears almost directly, and they re-
mained thus for moment, she standing by
his side.


At last she said, in low tone,


"This is dreadful for us all, isn't it 2"


dreadful for me-" he answered mournful-
ly. 81 feel alone in the world, now"


"You should not say so" said Minnie,
speaking still more softly. "You know you
still have-us"


"You and Ethel are my kind friends" he
rejoined, "but no one can ever quite ill his
place. If my brother we're only here!'


"Of course, we could never fill his place"
assented Minnie, "but still, it is comfort
that we can all be together" She hesitated a
moment, and then added, 81 think we ought
to feel more alone than you"


"How? you have each other still; that
ought to console you" he rejoined.


eyes, but you are a man we are two girls,
and unprotected. My dear, dear grandpapa."


Minnie did not mean to be guilty Of hypoc-
risy, but the two tears that just then rolled
down her cheeks were not prompted altogeth-
er by grief. At all events some other senti-
ment must have been mingled with it, for at
the same instant she stole glance at mirror
which stood over the mantelpiece just oppo-
site, and the idea occurred to her that her
complexion looked particularly fair in deep
black. The roses in her cheeks had not lost
their bloom, or her eyes their brilliancy, from
long watching and fatigue, as poor Ethels
had done.


Arly leaned his head back, and closed his
eyes and Minnie presently retired, to NOPE
in the dining.room alone. 1t seemed very
hard to her that there should be so much
trouble in the world. She would fain have
had nothing but sunshine to gild her path,
and could not see why her life should be dar-
kened by clouds and gloom.


The next day but one the funeral took place.
It was attended by every one in the parish,
for Mr. Conway was universally loved and
respected, and had lived from boyhood in the
midst of, and in familiar intercourse with
those who now assembled to offer their last
tribute of respect to his remains.


On the subsequent reading Of his will, it
was found that his property, with the excep-
ton of one or two legacies to intimate friends,
and some smaller presents to some OF his SER
wants, was bequeathed unreservedly to his
granddaughter, to be held in trust for them
by Mr.. Charlton until they should come Of
age. When Ethel should arrive at the age
of twenty-one she was to be placed in control
of her portion, without waiting for her sister
to attain her majority; but, until the latter
event, would have no authority to alter the
disposition of anything about the Grange,
which was to belong equally to them both.
MIR. Charlton and DR.. Harris were appointed
their guardians, and executors of the will.
Both of these gentlemen kindly urged upon
Ethel to come and make her home and her
sisters with them, for the present at any rate;
DR.. Harris was especially urgent, saying how
lonely it would be for them in that large
house, and how delighted his daughter Annie
would be to have them at Sunny HILL But
Ethel thought it best to decline both invita-
tions, saying that as their lives were to be
passed at the Grange, it was best that they
should remain quietly as they were, and with
so many faithful and attached servants about
them, and neighbors so near, they would have
no cause to fear staying there alone.


eff you were year or two younger, would
not let you have your way" said DR.. Harris,
"but as you are so near your majority, don't
see that it would do much good to dispute