"I can say sincerely," he responded, "that I have enjoyed the perfection of hospitality;" adding, in a low tone and with a quick, remorseful look at Annie, "though little deserving it."
"You have richly repaid us," said Mr. Walton, heartily. "It would have been very hard for me at my years to have to seek a new home. I have become wedded to this old place with my feelings and fancies, and the aged, you know, dislike change. I wish to make only one more, then rest will be complete."
"Now, father," said Annie, with glistening eyes, "you must not talk in that way. You know well that we cannot spare you even to go to heaven."
"Well, my child," answered he, fondly. "I am content to leave that in our best Friend's hands. But I cannot say," he added, with a touch of humor, "that it's a heavy cross to stay here with you."
"Would that such a cross were imposed upon me!" echoed Gregory, with sudden devoutness. "Miss Walton, did not my business imperatively demand my presence, I would break anything save my neck, in order to be an invalid on your hands."
"Come," cried Annie, half-vexed; "a truce to this style of remark. I think it's verging toward the sentimental, and I'm painfully matter-of-fact. Father, you must not think of going to heaven yet, and I don't like to hear you talk about it. Mr. Gregory can break his little finger, if he likes, so we may keep him longer. But do let us all be sensible, and not think of anything sad till it comes. Why should we? Mr. Gregory surely can find time to run up and see us, if he wishes, and I think he will."
Before he could reply, an anxious remark from little Susie enabled them to leave the table in the midst of one of those laughs that banish all embarrassment.
"But we'll be burned up if Mr. Gregory goes away."