Flossie calls ‘Jack and Gill.’  Roguish little bears he said they were, with all their mother’s Irish in them, even to her brogue.  He has grown stout with years, and seemed very happy, as he deserves to be.  Everybody is happy, but myself; everybody of some use, while I am a mere leech, a sponge, a nonenitity in everybody’s way, and I often wish I were dead.  Nobody would miss me.  Don’t interrupt me, please,” he continued, as he saw Bessie about to speak.  “Don’t interrupt me, and do not misunderstand me.  I know you and Grey would be sorry just at first, but you have each other, and you have your children.  You could not miss me long, or be sorry except for my wasted life.  No, Bessie.  I would far rather die, and I think I shall.”

This was Neil’s state of mind, and nothing could rouse him from it until one day in August when Miss Betsey drove over to Stoneleigh Cottage, and went up to his room, where he sat as usual by the window looking out upon the plateau, where Bessie’s children were frolicking with their nurse.  Of late he had evinced some interest in the children, and once or twice had had them in his room, and had held Baby Bessie on his knee and kissed her fat hands, and the boy Neil, who saw everything, had said to his mother, in speaking of it: 

“He looked as if he wanted to cry, when sister patted his face and said ‘I love oo,’ and when I asked him if he didn’t wish she was his baby, he looked so white, and said, ‘Yes, Neil; will you give her to me?’

“I told him ’No, sir-ee, I’d give him my ball, and velocipede, and jackknife, but not baby.’”

This was the day before Miss Betsey came, straight and prim as usual, but with a different look on her face and tone in her voice from anything Neil had known, as she asked him how he was feeling, and them, sitting down beside him, began abruptly: 

“I say, Neil, why, don’t you rouse yourself?  I’ve been talking to the doctor, and he says you have no particular disease, except that you seem discouraged and hopeless, and have made up your mind that you must die.”

“Yes, auntie, that is just it; hopeless and discouraged, and want to die—­oh, so badly!” Neil replied, as he leaned back in his chair.  “What use for me to live?  Who wants me?”

“I do!”

The words rang sharply through the room, and Neil started as if a pistol had been fired at him.

“You want me?  You!” he said, staring blankly at her as she went on rapidly: 

“Yes, I want you, and have come to tell you so.  I am an odd old woman, hard to be moved, but I am not quite calloused yet.  I did not like you, years ago, when those letters passed between us and you would not accept my offer because you thought it degrading.  I am glad now you did not, for if you had, Bessie would not have been Grey’s wife, but yours; and you are not fit to be her husband, or in fact anybody’s.  You are only fit to live with me, and see to my business.