"Take mine, Madam," said Mr. Carleton. "I have learned the comparative value of things too; and I will guard her highest interests as carefully as I will every other as earnestly as you can desire."
"I thank you, Sir," said the old lady, gratefully. "I am sure of it. I shall leave her in good hands. I wanted this assurance. And if ever there was a tender plant that was not fitted to grow on the rough side of the world I think this is one," said she, kissing earnestly the face that yet Fleda did not dare to lift up.
Mr. Carleton did not say what he thought. He presently took kind leave of the old lady, and went into the next room, where Fleda soon rejoined him, and they set off homewards.
Fleda was quietly crying all the way down the hill. At the foot of the hill, Mr. Carleton resolutely slackened his pace.
"I have one consolation," he said, "my dear Elfie you will have the less to leave for me."
She put her hand with a quick motion upon his, and roused herself.
"She is a beautiful rebuke to unbelief. But she is hardly to be mourned for, Elfie."
"Oh, I was not crying for aunt Miriam," said Fleda.
"For what then?" he said, gently.
"Myself."