“They had passed their lives together, they had borne the same burdens, faced the same storms, and rejoiced in the same warmth of Summer sun.  One was not left, stricken, long after the other was dead; their last grief was borne together and was lessened because it was shared.  I stand there sometimes now, where the two dead trees are leaning close together, and as the wind sighs through the bare boughs, it chants no dirge to me, but only a hymn of farewell.

[Sidenote:  Together with Love]

“There is nothing in all the world, Barbara, that means so much as that one word, ‘together,’ and when you add ‘love’ to it, you have heaven, for God himself can give no more joy than to bring together two who love, never to part again.”

“Thank you,” said Barbara, gently, after a pause.

“I thank you too,” said Roger.

Ambrose North rose and offered his hand to Roger.  “Good-night,” he said.  “I am glad you came.  Your father was my friend.”  Then he bent to kiss Barbara.  “Good-night, my dear.”

“Friend,” repeated Roger to himself, as the old man went out.  “Yes, friend who never betrayed you or yours.”  The boy thrilled with passionate pride at the thought.  Before the memory of his father his young soul stood at salute.

Barbara’s eyes followed her father fondly as he went out and down the hall to his own room.  When his door closed, Roger came to the other chair, sat down, and took her hand.

“It’s not really necessary,” explained Barbara, with a faint pink upon her cheeks.  “I shall probably recover, even if my hand isn’t held all the time.”

“But I want to,” returned Roger, and she did not take her hand away.  Her cheeks took on a deeper colour and she smiled, but there was something in her deep eyes that Roger had never seen there before.

“I’ve missed you so,” he went on.

“And I have missed you.”  She did not dare to say how much.

“How long must you lie here?”

“Not much longer, I hope.  Somebody is coming down next week to take off the plaster; then, after I’ve stayed in bed a little longer, they’ll see whether I can walk or not.”

[Sidenote:  The Crutches]

She sighed wistfully and a strange expression settled on her face as she looked at the crutches which still leaned against the foot of her bed.

“Why do you have those there?” asked Roger, quickly.

“To remind me always that I mustn’t hope too much.  It’s just a chance, you know.”

“If you don’t need them again, may I have them?”

“Why?” she asked, startled.

“Because they are yours—­they’ve seemed a part of you ever since I’ve known you.  I couldn’t bear to have thrown away anything that was part of you, even if you’ve outgrown it.”

“Certainly,” answered Barbara, in a high, uncertain voice.  “You’re very welcome and I hope you can have them.”

“Barbara!” Roger knelt beside the bed, still keeping her hand in his.  “What did I say that was wrong?”