"I must tell them. It is hard on the poor girls."

"And hard on you," said d.i.c.k. "And me, too," he added, with a sigh.

The curtains of the windows had been drawn, and it was quite dark in the room. Richard approached the bed and grasped his father's hand.

"Is it you, Richard?" questioned the sufferer.

"Yes, father."

"I'm glad you've come. I want to talk to you."

"But it may hurt you to talk too much," said the boy feelingly.

"Never mind. It will all be over soon," replied Mr. Dare with a heavy cough. "I suppose the doctor has told you. He said he would."

The boy nodded his head.

"It is G.o.d's will, and we must bow to His judgment," continued the injured man. "But I want to talk to you about what to do when I am gone."

"Oh, father!"

"Hush! I feel that I am sinking, even faster than Dr. Melvin thinks.

Listen then to what I have to say."

"I am listening."

"When I'm gone, Richard, you will have to take my place. Your mother is strong, and can do much; but she is a woman, and she, as well as your sisters, will need your help."

"They shall have all that I can possibly give them. I will work, and do all I can."

"I know you will, Richard. You have always been a good boy. I am sorry that I cannot leave you all better off than I'm doing."

"Never mind, father; we will get along."

"I suppose I might have done so if I'd had the courage to strike out,"

continued Mr. Dare, with a sigh. "I always calculated to do something for myself, but that's all over now. But you take after your mother, the same as your sister Grace, and if you make the right start I feel you will succeed."

"I shall remember what you say."

"Do so. But remember also to be always sober, industrious, and considerate of those around you. Be true to yourself, and to every one with whom you have dealings. You may not get along so fast, but people will respect you more, and your success will be ten times sweeter than it would have been had you risen by pushing others down."

"I shall try to deserve success, even if I don't rise very high, father."

"That's right." Mr. Dare paused for a moment. "I'm sorry that I cannot leave you more of a capital upon which to start in life."

"Never mind; I have a common school education and my health. What more can a boy wish?"

"It is as much as I had upon which to start. But I might have left you more. I deserve a pension as a soldier."

"You never pushed your claim, did you?"

"Yes, once. But I never told any of you, for fear of raising false hopes. I did apply, and it was all straight, but at the last moment the Department decided that I must have another witness to prove my ident.i.ty, and this I could not get."

"You had one witness, then?"

"Yes. A man named Crawford, who was in our regiment. He was appointed an officer on the same day I was shot; but, as he was appointed _after_ the occurrence they held that his single witnessing was not enough, and so I had to hunt for another."

"And you never found the other?"

"No, though I hunted high and low. Some who saw the affair must be still living, but I have not their addresses, nor do I know how to find them."

"Did you ever advertise in the papers?"

"Yes; I spent fifty dollars in the columns of the leading dailies, but without success."

"You have all the papers in the case?"

"They are in the trunk upstairs. If you can ever push the claim do so--for the others' sake as well as your own."

"I will, father."

"How much it will be worth I do not know, but it may be several thousands of dollars, and that, along with this house, which is free and clear, may suffice to keep the family many a year."

At this juncture a violent fit of coughing seized Mr. Dare, and by the time he had recovered, his wife and the three girls entered.

CHAPTER III.

PREPARING TO START.

Two days later the blinds of the little cottage were closed, and c.r.a.pe hung in solemn black upon the front door. The neighbors, and indeed the whole population of the village, came and went continually--some few with genuine grief and sympathy, and the many others to satisfy a morbid curiosity regarding the man whose life had so suddenly ended.

It was a dismal enough time for the inmates. Richard did all a brave boy can do to comfort his mother and sisters, but he himself needed consolation fully as much as any of them. He had thought much of his father, and the cold form lying in the draped coffin in the parlor sent a chill through his heart that would have an effect in all after life.

At last the funeral was over, and the last of the neighbors had gone away. It was nearly sunset, and the entire family had gathered in the little kitchen to partake of a cup of tea, and to talk over the situation. Mrs. Dare sat in a rocking-chair beside the table, her face plainly showing her intense grief, and near her, on a low stool, sat Richard.

"Well, mother, I suppose I will have to do something very soon now,"

began the boy. "It won't do for me to remain idle when there is no money coming in."

Mrs. Dare sighed.

"I can't think of money matters yet, Richard," she replied, shaking her head sadly. "It is all so sudden, so unexpected, I cannot realize our terrible loss."

"There isn't a chance for any one in Mossvale," put in Nancy. She herself had been secretly wondering what they were going to do for support.

"So I told mother some time ago," responded Richard. "The few places here are all filled."