She was the first to speak, for women are braver and stronger than men. She accused herself and took all the blame. But he would not listen to her self-reproaches. And they spoke to each other—I know not what things, only that they were tender and sweet and of consolation. I remember that at the last he put his arm about her as if he had not been an aged man and she were not white-haired and bowed, but as if they two were walking in the springtime of their love.
"It is God's will," he said, "and let us not rebel against it. The journey to the end is but a little longer now; we have come so far together, and surely we can go on alone."
"No, not alone," I said, for the inspiration came to me then. "Our little child yonder—God has lent this lambkin to our keeping—share her love with us. There is so much, so very much you can do for her which we cannot do, for we are poor, and you are rich. Help us to care for her and share her love with us, and she shall be your child and ours."
That was the compact between us fifteen years ago, and they have been happy, very happy years. Blossom—we call her Blossom, after the dear old friends who have been so good to her and to us—she comes from school to-night, and to-morrow we shall sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with our daughter. We always speak of her as "our daughter," for, you know, she belongs now no more to Cordelia and me than to Mr. and Mrs. Blossom.
DEATH AND THE SOLDIER
A soldier, who had won imperishable fame on the battlefields of his country, was confronted by a gaunt stranger, clad all in black and wearing an impenetrable mask.
"Who are you that you dare to block my way?" demanded the soldier.
Then the stranger drew aside his mask, and the soldier knew that he was Death.
"Have you come for me?" asked the soldier. "If so, I will not go with you; so go your way alone."