that might indicate the giving up a struggle which he had no
means of carrying on, or the endeavour to conceal it from the
too keen-wrought feelings of his little grand-daughter, —
"there will be a way opened for us somehow. We must let our
Heavenly Father take care of us."

"And he will, grandpa," whispered Fleda.

"Yes, dear! We are selfish creatures. Your father's and your
mother's child will not be forgotten."

"Nor you either, dear grandpa," said the little girl, laying
her soft cheek alongside of his, and speaking by dint of a
great effort.

"No," said he, clasping her more tenderly, — "no — it would be
wicked in me to doubt it. He has blessed me all my life long
with a great many more blessings than I deserved; and if he
chooses to take away the sunshine of my last days, I will bow
my head to his will, and believe that he does all things well,
though I cannot see it."

"Don't, dear grandpa," said Fleda, stealing her other arm
round his neck and hiding her face there, — "please don't!"

He very much regretted that he had said too much. He did not,
however, know exactly how to mend it. He kissed her, and
stroked her soft hair, but that and the manner of it only made
it more difficult for Fleda to recover herself, which she was
struggling to do; and when he tried to speak in accents of