His quiet voice faltered. Mary took his hand and kissed it
passionately; a sob broke from her, and she turned her face away
from the brothers and sister who loved but did not understand her.
They looked at her with grave compassion, but no one would have
thought of interrupting Father Golden.

"Mary, you are the home-maker," the old man went on. "I hope that
when I am gone this home will still be here, with you at the head of
it. You are your mother's own daughter; there is no more to say." He
was silent for a time, and then continued.

"There remains little Benjamin, a child of ten years. He is no kin
to us; an orphan, or as good as one; no person has ever claimed him,
or ever will. The time has come to decide what shall be done with
the child."

Again he paused, and looked around. The serious young faces were all
intent upon him; in some, the intentness seemed deepening into
trouble, but no one spoke or moved.

"We have done all that we undertook to do for him, that night we
took him in, and more. We have brought him--I should say your mother
brought him--through his sickly days; we 'most lost him, you remember,
when he was two years old, with the croup--and he is now a healthy,
hearty child, and will likely make a strong man. He has been well
treated, well fed and clothed, maybe better than he would have been
by his own parents if so't had been. He is turning out wild and
mischievous, though he has a good heart, none better; and you all,
except Mary, come to me with complaints of him.