"What does thee mean, friend?"
"It is this thing, mother," said Faith, bringing it forward, and leaning it against the wall at the foot of the bed. "He brought it with him," continued she, in a low voice; "and father says, he didn't seem to care half so much about his own comfort as to have that safe."
"It is my—property,—all I have—left. I won't be—parted from it.
You—sha'n't take it—away," gasped the sick man, in an excited tone.
"Thee shall not be parted from it, friend," said Mrs. Coffin, soothingly. "Surely we would not deprive thee of what is thine own, and what thee seems to value so much. Now if thee will try to go to sleep, I will stay with thee the while, and when thee wakes give thee some broth to strengthen thee."
"Let—let her stay.—Go away,—the rest of you," whispered the feeble voice, while the weary eyes rested upon Faith's grave, sweet face.
"Thee means my daughter? Faith, does thee wish to stay? or had thee rather I should?"
"I will stay, mother, if he wishes it."
"Very well, daughter. When thee is weary, come down, and I, or one of the women, will take thy place."
Mrs. Coffin left the room, and Faith, her sewing in her hand, was about seating herself by the fire, when the voice of the stranger summoned her to the bedside.
Turning, she found his hollow and gleaming eyes fixed sternly upon her, while a long, lean finger was pointed alternately at her and the frame leaning against the wall.