but a constraining gesture of her father obliged her to remain, and
keep the cordial ready for immediate administration.

'My dear, I believe you know,' said Dr. May, bending over him--and
Mary well knew what the face must be saying.

'Both?' the faint tones asked.

'Recollect the sorrow that they have been spared,' said Dr. May in
his lowest, tenderest tones, putting his hand out behind him, and
signing to Mary for the cordial.

'She could not have borne it;' and the feebleness of those words made
Mary eager to put the spoon once more into her father's hands.

'That is right, my boy. Think of their being together;' and Mary
heard tears in her father's voice.

'Thank you,' again showed that the cordial was swallowed; then a
pause, and in a quiet, sad, low tone, 'Poor Ave!'

'Your mending is the best thing for her.'

Then came a long sigh; and then, after a pause, the Doctor knelt
down, and said the Lord's Prayer--the orphan's prayer, as so many
have felt it in the hour of bereavement.

All was quite still, and both he and Mary knelt on for some short
space; then he arose in guarded stillness, hastily wiped away the
tears that were streaming over his face, and holding back the