The others scattered in various directions, as inclination dictated.

Elsie and Annis sought the grounds, and, taking possession of a rustic seat beneath a spreading tree, had a long, quiet talk, recalling incidents of other days, and exchanging mutual confidences.

“What changes we have passed through since our first acquaintance !” exclaimed Annis.  “What careless, happy children we were then!”

“And what happy women we are now!” added Elsie, with a joyous smile.

“Yes; and you a grandmother!  I hardly know how to believe it!  You seem wonderfully young for that.”

“Do I?” laughed Elsie.  “I acknowledge that I feel young—­that I have never yet been able to reason myself into feeling old.”

“Don’t try; keep young as long as ever you can,” was Annis’s advice.

“It is what you seem to be doing,” said Elsie, sportively, and with an admiring look at her cousin.  “Dear Annis, may I ask why it is you have never married?  It must certainly have been your own fault.”

“Really, I hardly know what reply to make to that last remark,” returned Annis, in her sprightly way.  “But I have not the slightest objection to answering your question.  I will tell ’the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’  I have had friends and admirers among the members of the other sex, but have never yet seen the man for love of whom I could for a moment think of leaving father and mother.”

“How fortunate for them!” Elsie said, with earnest sincerity.  “I know they must esteem it a great blessing that they have been able to keep one dear daughter in the old home.”

“And I esteem myself blest indeed in having had my dear father and mother spared to me all these years,” Annis said, with feeling.  “What a privilege it is, Elsie, to be permitted to smooth, some of the roughnesses from their pathway now in their declining years; to make life even a trifle easier and happier than it might otherwise be to them—­the dear parents who so tenderly watched over me in infancy and youth!  I know you can appreciate it—­you who love your father so devotedly.

“But Cousin Horace is still a comparatively young man, hale and hearty, and to all appearance likely to live many years, while my parents are aged and infirm, and I cannot hope to keep them long.”  Her voice was husky with emotion as she concluded.

“Dear Annis,” Elsie said, pressing tenderly the hand she held in hers, “you are never to lose them.  They may be called home before you, but the separation will be short and the reunion for eternity—­an eternity of unspeakable joy, unclouded bliss at the right hand of Him whom you all love better than you love each other.”

“That is true,” Annis responded, struggling with her tears, “and there is very great comfort in the thought; yet one cannot help dreading the parting, and feeling that death is a thing to be feared for one’s dear ones and one’s self.  Death is a terrible thing, Elsie.”