“But I could have been spared much better than poor Edith,” she said; “she was an only child, and papa would have four still left if he lost only me.”
“I should not know how to spare you or any one of my darlings,” responded her father, in moved tones, smoothing her hair with tender, caressing hand, and kissing her on cheek and lip and brow.
“I’m glad we’re almost ready to go away from here,” remarked Max, “We’ve been having a merry, happy time, but it will seem very sad after this.”
“When do we go, papa?” asked Lulu.
“I have set day after to-morrow,” he answered. “But while we are here, let us strive rather to sympathize in the grief and suffering of those so sorely bereaved than to be thinking of ourselves and our own enjoyment. The Bible bids us weep with those that weep, as well as to rejoice with those that do rejoice!”
The captain earnestly strove to carry out that teaching, and nothing was omitted or neglected that he could do to show his sympathy with Edith’s heart-broken parents; or with Marian, who grieved sorely over the loss of her friend—snatched from her in so sad a manner—and the news that Lulu, to whom she had become warmly attached, was soon to leave Minersville, probably never to return.
Lulu had been seized with a longing for the dear ones at home—especially Gracie—and expected to feel only joy in turning her back upon the little Western town in which she had sojourned so pleasantly for the last four weeks, but, when the time came, found she was a sharer to some extent in the grief at parting, that set Marian to weeping bitterly.
“Don’t cry so, Marian,” Lulu said, with emotion. “I didn’t think you cared so much for me.”
“Oh, I love you almost as if you were my sister!” sobbed Marian, “and it nearly breaks my heart to think I shall never, never see you again.”
“But perhaps you may. Isn’t it possible, papa?” and Lulu turned inquiringly to her father.