Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.

"You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make them. I don't believe anybody ever saw your face who didn't want to see it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness."

Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.

"How you talk, Cousin Betsey!" said she.

"Well, that's the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there you'll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And you'll get your wages--rest, and a quiet mind."

Elizabeth's eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be in the shadow, and then she went on:

"You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left."

Elizabeth said nothing to this.

"Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a great many more there once, and we used to call it Elm Grove in old times. There are only three or four left that are not dying. I hear the children calling it the grove still. The young trees are growing up fast round them, not elms, many of them but wild cherry-trees, and poplars, and a few spruces but the poor old elms seem to be all the more alone because of the second growth. When your father and my mother are gone, there won't be a great many left to me. I suppose I shall find something to do, however, till my time comes."

There was a long silence after that. Betsey went once or twice into the sick-room, but the old man slept peacefully.

"It will not be to-night," said she softly. Then she sat down again.

"Cousin," said she gravely in a little, "you are not worrying about your father, as though it may--not be well with him now?"

Elizabeth looked at her startled.

Betsey went on:

"I have been exercised about him considerably myself, one time and another. I have felt as if I must have him to come out and acknowledge himself on the Lord's side, confess Him before men, by openly uniting himself with the Church. But he has been hindered. I do not know where has been the stumbling-block altogether. But the Lord knows, and actions speak louder than words. He has lived a Christian life since ever I can remember. And it is by their fruits ye shall know them."

Elizabeth's face had fallen on her hands again, and her tears were falling fast, but she had no words with which to answer her.

"A good many years ago, at communion seasons, I used to grieve over him more than a little. I couldn't bear to have him miss the privilege-- deprive himself of the privilege of remembering the Lord in the way He appointed. He didn't consider himself worthy, he told me once, when I said a word to him about it--at the time my father died that was.

"I tell you, Lizzie, it made me feel poor and mean enough--a hypocrite, almost, when I heard him say it. Not that any one can be worthy, in one sense. But out Lord said, 'Except ye be converted and become as little children,' and he had the heart of a little child about some things, more than any one I ever knew.

"Cousin, if I were to tell you--but I couldn't begin to tell you, all he has done for us--for father and the boys when they were in trouble, and for me. And the way he did it, as though it was his business, that he needn't be thanked for. The patience he showed, and the gentleness-- yes, and the strength and firmness, when these were needed. I should have fallen down under my burden in those days, if it hadn't been for Uncle Gershom. I have often wondered, Lizzie, if you knew just what a man your father was."

Elizabeth turned her tearful face, smiling now, toward her cousin, but she said nothing.

"I never could tell you--never! My father, for a good while, wasn't easy to get along with. Well, he wasn't himself all the time, and if it hadn't been for Uncle Gershom--

"But there--I mustn't talk about it, not to-night," she said, rising and walking about the room. "It kind of puts me off the balance to go back to those days, and I'd better let it alone to-night."

"Some time you will tell me," said Elizabeth.

"Well, I don't promise. But if I could tell you just how like the face of an angel your father's face has been to me many and many a time."

"I think I know," said Elizabeth.

"And I wish we were all as fit for heavenly places as he is. I don't deny that I should have been glad for the sake of the cause, if he could have seen his way clear to unite with the Church before he went--to sit down at the Lord's table here on earth, before he goes to sit down at it above, and I wish he might even yet."

"I'll tell you what I would like. If he should revive a little, as he may, and if the minister had no objections, a few might come in, mother and Cynthia, and old Davie Fleming, and two or three others, and take the cup and the bread with him, not that it would make any real difference--"

"Betsey," said the squire's voice from the other room.

They were both with pale faces at his bedside in a moment.

"Did I hear Betsey's voice? Or did you only say she was coming, Lizzie?

Oh, she is here, is she? Well, I've got something to say to Betsey.

It isn't best to put off these things too long."

Poor old squire! He had said almost the same words every time he had seen Betsey for the last year or two, and it never occurred to either of them that he would not forget the words as soon as they were uttered.

After taking some nourishment he was much revived and strengthened.

"Yes, I want to speak to Betsey about some business. Jacob isn't here, is he? Because this is between Betsey and me. It was all over and done with before Jacob knew anything about my business, and he needn't know now. Go up-stairs, Lizzie, to the store-room where the old bureau is, and your mother's little wheel, and you'll find what I want--the old saddle-bag--in the left-hand, deep drawer. There are papers in it; but you'd better bring the bag down."

Elizabeth waited a moment, thinking he might drop asleep again, but he did not.

"I feel rested. It won't hurt me, Lizzie. Better go now, and have it over with--"

Elizabeth looked at her cousin.

"You'd better go, I guess. It will satisfy him, even if he cannot do anything about it."

Elizabeth returned almost immediately, and spent a little time brushing the dirt from the old bag, which she remembered as always taken by her father on his journeys on horseback long ago, though she had not seen it for years.

"I brought it from Ma.s.sachusetts with me well-nigh on fifty year ago,"

said the old man, laying his hand on it. "Where are my gla.s.ses? But I guess you'll find what I want, Lizzie."

There was no lock to be opened. There were a number of folded papers, laid loosely in the compartments. They were arranged with some order, however, and Elizabeth read the few words written on the outside of each as she lifted them out. They were a strange medley, notes of hand, receipted accounts, the certificate of the squire's first marriage, his wife's letter of dismissal from the Ma.s.sachusetts church, dated, as the squire said, "well-nigh on fifty year ago." Then there was a bundle of papers marked "Brother Reuben."

"That is it. I ought to look them all over myself. But you'll have to do it, Lizzie."

There were several acknowledgments of money received, and notes of hand to a large amount that had pa.s.sed between the brothers. On one was written, "Paid for my Joe," and a date; on another, "Lent to my son.

Parley, at the time he went west," and several more of the same kind.

The dates ran over many years, and the father had made himself responsible for all to the squire.

"He was very independent, was my brother Reuben, always," said the squire. "He wanted to mortgage his place to me, but I wouldn't have it.

I thought his notes good enough; more easily dealt with anyway than a mortgage. He would have paid every cent if he could, and if he had it would have all gone into the bank for the benefit of his womenfolk, who have had a hard time mostly."

He seemed to have forgotten Betsey's presence, for he went on:

"I want you to give them to Betsey. Jacob needn't hear of them. He might think he had some claim on them, but he hasn't a mite. Betsey shall have the satisfaction of knowing that at no time to come they can be claimed--the value of them, I mean. Betsey knew about them, I guess, though her father didn't mean she should. She is a good woman, Betsey, if ever there was one, and she has had her share of trouble."

"Father, I will burn them now; that will be best," said Elizabeth, eagerly.

"And not say anything to Betsey? But she knows there is something due, and it might worry her, thinking that some time or other it might be claimed. If you burn them I think you should let her see you do it."

"Yes, father; Betsey is here, and we shall burn them together."