"Amen!" cried the old lady, with Methodistic fervor.
"What are you saying amen to?—that I'm not good?"
"Oh, I imagine we all average about alike," was her grim reply—"the more shame to us all!"
"Dear, conscience-stricken old aunty!" said Graham, smiling at her.
"Will nothing ever lay your theological ghosts?"
"No, Alford," she said, gravely. "Let us change the subject."
"I've told Major St. John everything from the day I first came here," Graham explained; "and now before we separate let it be understood that he joins us as a powerful ally. His influence over Grace, after all, is more potent than that of all the rest of us united. My words to-night have acted more like a shock than anything else. I have placed before her clearly and sharply the consequences of yielding passively, and of drifting further toward darkness. We must possess ourselves with an almost infinite patience and vigilance. She, after all, must bear the brunt of this fight with death; but we must be ever on hand to give her support, and it must be given also unobtrusively, with all the tact we possess. We can let her see that we are more cheerful in our renewed hope, but we must be profoundly sympathetic and considerate."
"Well, Graham, as I said before, you are captain. I learned to obey orders long ago as well as to give them;" and the major summoned his valet and bade them goodnight.
Graham, weary in the reaction from his intense feeling and excitement, threw himself on the sofa, and his aunt came and sat beside him.
"Alford," she said, "what an immense change your coming has made!"
"The beginning of a change, I hope."