[Illustration: "I wasn't thinking of myself in particular."]

"It must be pleasant," said Fleda, after looking for some minutes
thoughtfully into the fire,--"it must be a pleasant thing to have a father
and mother."

"Yes dear!" said her grandfather, sighing,--"you have lost a great deal!
But there is your aunt Lucy--you are not dependent altogether on me."

"Oh grandpa!" said the little girl laying one hand again pleadingly on his
knee;--"I didn't mean--I mean--I was speaking in general--I wasn't
thinking of myself in particular."

"I know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in his own and
moving it softly up and down on his knee. But the action was sad, and
there was the same look of sorrowful stern 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."

Pleda's next words were scarcely 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