"You will have to be father, mother, and brother to the girls, Dick. It is a great charge, but you will not shirk it. I know what you are, dear boy, and now, more than ever, I thank God, who took my only son, that He left me you."
The speaker had not long to live, and she knew it. She had four girls to leave motherless, and she had been ten years a widow. He to whom she spoke was her stepson, Richard Maynard Whitmore, who was sitting by her bed and looking in her wan face with loving, troubled eyes. His answer was not long in coming. Holding the invalid's thin hand in a gentle, caressing clasp, the young man replied, "As you have been a true mother to me, so will I be to the girls all you say, as God shall enable me."
A beautiful glad light overspread Mrs. Whitmore's face as the words fell on her ear. Dick's honest eyes were turned towards her, and though he spoke quietly, his tone was solemn and earnest, as befitted the occasion and the responsibility he was taking upon himself.
"Kiss me, dear Dick."
Richard rose and bent his tall figure until his lips touched those of his stepmother. She made an effort to clasp her thin arms round his neck, and after kissing him again and again, she held him for a few moments in a close embrace. Thus was the compact sealed.
Mrs. Whitmore knew well what a noble nature was covered under Dick's quiet, undemonstrative manner. The few words he had just spoken were quite enough to remove every anxious thought from her mind—save one.
Even before they were spoken the mother had said to herself, "The girls will be safe so long as they are sheltered by Dick's roof. He will be a true guardian, and will watch over and guide them aright, if they will be guided. He is good and wise beyond his years, and so unselfish."
"The three will be manageable enough, for they love him. My only fear is for Gertrude, and I dread her influence over the rest."
It seemed strange and sad that at such a time Mrs. Whitmore's thoughts should be disturbed by anxiety about her eldest daughter, and that her whole trust should be placed on the only one of her husband's children who was not also her very own son.
It was evident that Richard Whitmore read a story of hidden trouble in his mother's face, for, after her arms released him, he noted that the glad look called forth by his assurance had faded, and given place to a different expression. There was something yet unsaid, and he asked her, gently, "What is it, dear mother?"