"I am sure it has," Virgie answered, brightly; "and papa, now that your
mind is relieved of all pecuniary care, don't you think you will continue
to improve?"

"No, Virgie," her father returned, gravely; "do not allow my temporary
improvement to deceive you. A fatal disease has fastened itself upon me,
and I know that I have not long to live."

"Oh, papa!" exclaimed the lovely girl, sharply. "I will not believe it.
Pray, pray try what medical advice will do for you."

"Hush, my child," Mr. Abbot returned, deeply moved. "I did not mean to
refer to this again, but you force me to do so; nothing short of a miracle
could give me a sound pair of lungs again."

"Then let us try change of air--anything so that I may keep you with me,"
Virgie pleaded, yet knowing, as she did so, that there was no place on
earth that held so much attraction for her now as the humble home which
heretofore had seemed so lonely and isolated.

A subtle charm seemed suddenly to have fallen upon it; everything looked
brighter; all things surrounding it had become dearer.

"No, dear; no air will be so good for me as this pure, bracing mountain
atmosphere," her father replied, gently. "I would shrink from going to any
place where we should be likely to find familiar faces--nothing would
break me down so quickly. Be patient, Virgie for a little longer, and then
you shall go back to the world, where you ought long ago to have been
with people of your own age."