Marion's manner was always charming in its heartiness, but towards her aged friends there was almost a filial warmth, which made them feel that they were special favorites. She seated the white-haired old man in her most comfortable chair, putting an ottoman near him, where she could sit and look in his face.
"You have been near death, I hear," he said tenderly.
"Yes, sir; but all that time was lost to me. I was not conscious of danger."
"God has been good to you, my child. He has raised you up to new duties. You must be thankful for all His mercies."
"I must, indeed. I want to be better for this sickness, more helpful of others not so favored as I am, more humble and charitable."
"That's right, dear child. Ask for grace to improve each day's joys and sorrows, and you will get it."
He then talked to Marion of business, saying, "There are some papers which it will be necessary for you to sign."
He had made a long call, when the doctor came in, and, seeing Mr. Belknap, telegraphed to Marion to speak to him in the hall. When there he only said,—
"Tell your story to him: he's a good friend to you."
And she did tell him, relating the death scene in the hospital more in detail than she had done before. She told him also that she had accidentally met a person who was burdened with a heavy grief, whose name, as nearly as she could recollect, was the same. She had always called her friend by her first name, and the belief grew stronger and stronger in her mind that he was the one to whom her dying friend referred. An expression on the gentleman's face had first startled her and carried her back in mind to her friend, and the recollection of the letters left in her care.