the west. Promise, and I shall die happy."

This was a new idea to John, and for a time he hesitated. He glanced
at his mother; she was ignorant and peculiar, but she was his mother
still. He looked at 'Lena, she was beautiful--he knew that, but she
was odd and old-fashioned. He thought of his haughty wife, his
headstrong son and his imperious daughter. What would they say if he
made that promise, for if he made it he would keep it.

A long time his father awaited his answer, and then he spoke again:
"Won't you give your old mother a home?"

The voice was weaker than when it spoke before, and John knew that
life was fast ebbing away, for the brow on which his hand was resting
was cold and damp with the moisture of death. He could no longer
refuse, and the promise was given.

The next morning, the deep-toned bell of Oakland told that another
soul was gone, and the villagers as they counted the three score
strokes and ten knew that Grandfather Nichols was numbered with the
dead.




CHAPTER III.

PACKING UP.

The funeral was over, and in the quiet valley by the side of his only