"Then what can I do, Jean?" I asked, regretfully.

"Make her your wife, Sir."

I turned sharply and stared at the woman, as her abrupt reply reached my
ear. Though trembling for the consequences of her boldly spoken wish,
Jean did not shrink from my astonished gaze; and when I saw the
wistfulness of that wan face, the smile died on my lips, checked by the
tender courage which had prompted the utterance of her dying hope.

"My good Jean, you forget that Effie is a child, and I a moody, solitary
man, with no gifts to win a wife or make home happy."

"Effie is sixteen, Sir,--a fair, good lassie for her years; and you--ah,
Sir, _you_ may call yourself unfit for wife and home, but the poorest,
saddest creature in this place knows that the man whose hand is always
open, whose heart is always pitiful, is not the one to live alone, but
to win and to deserve a happy home and a true wife. Oh, Sir, forgive me,
if I have been too bold; but my time is short, and I love my child so
well, I cannot leave the desire of my heart unspoken, for it is my
last."

As the words fell brokenly from her lips, and tears streamed down her
pallid cheek, a great pity took possession of me, the old longing to
find some solace for my solitary life returned again, and peace seemed
to smile on me from little Effie's eyes.

"Jean," I said, "give me till to-morrow to consider this new thought. I
fear it cannot be; but I have learned to love the child too well to see