of them made the tears come hot and fast, these were nothing
in her mind to the knowledge or the dread of the effect the
change would have upon Mr. Ringgan. Fleda knew him, and knew
it would not be slight. Whiter his head could not be, more
bowed it well might; and her own bowed in anticipation as her
childish fears and imaginings ran on into the possible future.
Of McGowan's tender mercies she had no hope. She had seen him
once, and being unconsciously even more of a physiognomist
than most children are, that one sight of him was enough to
verify all Mr. Jolly had said. The remembrance of his hard,
sinister face sealed her fears. Nothing but evil could come of
having to do with such a man. It was, however, still not so
much any foreboding of the future that moved Fleda's tears as
the sense of her grandfather's present pain, — the quick
answer of her gentle nature to every sorrow that touched him.
His griefs were doubly hers. Both from his openness of
character and her penetration, they could rarely be felt un-
shared; and she shared them always in more than due measure.

In beautiful harmony, while the child had forgotten herself in
keen sympathy with her grandfather's sorrows, he, on the other
hand, had half lost sight of them in caring for her. Again,
and this time not before any house but in a wild piece of
woodland, the little wagon came to a stop.

"Aint there some holly berries that I see yonder?" said Mr.
Ringgan, — "there, through those white birch stems? That's
what you were wanting, Fleda, aint it? Give your bittersweet
to me while you go get some, — and here, take this knife,
dear, you can't break it. Don't cut yourself."