“We have made arrangements with her,” echoed Miss Katharine, and here she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob.

The squire was very restless all night, and several times the words “Kitty” and “Valentine” escaped his lips. The end was near and the poor old brain was wandering.

Toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with Miss Katharine.

“Father,” she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand, and looking at him imploringly, “father, you would bid us be kind to Valentine’s children?”

“Valentine’s children?” repeated the old man. “Ay, ay, Kitty. My head wanders. Are they Valentine’s children or Rupert’s children?—the Rupert who should have inherited Avonsyde. Somebody’s children were here to-day, but I cannot remember whether they belonged to Valentine or Rupert.”

“Father, they belong to Valentine—to your son Valentine. You are dying. May I bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?”

The old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. She did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures.

“Kiss your grandfather, Kitty; his pain is bad. Kiss him tenderly, dear little child.”

Kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly.

“Now, Rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill.”