upon his face. I knew by the look of calm resolve in his gray eyes
that a decision had been reached.

"Mary," he began gravely, "and you, John, we must talk together of this
new duty which has just come to us. I hardly know what to decide, for
we are so poor and I am now so helpless; yet I have prayed earnestly
for guidance, and can but think it must be God's will that we care for
this poor orphan child of my old friend."

My mother crossed the room to him, and bent down until her soft cheek
touched his lips.

"I knew you would, David," she whispered, in the tender way she had,
her hand pressing back his short gray hair. "She shall ever be unto us
as our own little girl,--the one we lost come back to us again."

My father bent his head wearily upon one hand, his eyes upon the candle
flame, his other hand patting her fingers.

"It must be all of ten years," he said slowly, "since last I had word
of Roger Matherson. He was in Canada then, yet has never since been
long out of my mind. He saved my life, not once alone, as he would
seem to remember, but three separate times in battle. We were children
together in the blue Berkshire hills, and during all our younger
manhood were more than brothers. His little one shall henceforth be as
my own child. God hath given her unto us, Mary, as truly as if she had
been born of our love. I knew that Roger had married, yet heard
nothing of the birth of the child or the loss of his wife. However,
from this hour the orphan is to be our own; and we must now decide upon
some safe means of bringing her here without delay."