anxiety. Fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder,
speaking from a heart filled too full.

"I don't want aunt Lucy — I don't care about aunt Lucy, I
don't want anything but you, grandpa. I wish you wouldn't talk
so."

"Ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her, — he
couldn't bear to look at her, — "it's well it is so. I sha'n't
last a great while — it isn't likely — and I am glad to know
there is some one you can fall back upon when I am gone."

Fleda's next words were scarce audible, but they contained a
reproach to him for speaking so.

"We may as well look at it, dear," said he, gravely; "it must
come to that —- sooner or later — but you mustn't distress
yourself about it beforehand. Don't cry — don't dear!" said
he, tenderly kissing her. "I didn't mean to trouble you so.
There — there — look up, dear — let's take the good we have
and be thankful for it. God will arrange the rest, in his own
good way. Fleda! — I wouldn't have said a word if I had
thought it would have worried you so."

He would not indeed. But he had spoken as men so often speak,
out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness,
forgetting that they are wringing the chords of a delicate
harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they
find the instrument all out of tune, — more often not knowing
it ever. It is pity, — for how frequently a discord is left