“My dear husband,” said Cynthia, when she had finished, her hand tightening over his, “I have never told you this for fear that it might trouble you as it has troubled me.  I have found in your love sanctuary; and all that remains of myself I have given to you.”

“You have found a weakling to protect, and an invalid to nurse,” he answered.  “To have your compassion, Cynthia, is all I crave.”

So they lived through the happiest and swiftest years of his life, working side by side, sharing this strange secret between them.  And after that night Cynthia talked to him often of Coniston, until he came to know the mountain that lay along the western sky, and the sweet hillsides by Coniston Water under the blue haze of autumn, aye, and clothed in the colors of spring, the bright blossoms of thorn and apple against the tender green of the woods and fields.  So he grew to love the simple people there, but little did he foresee that he was to end his life among them!

But so it came to pass, she was taken from him, who had been the one joy and inspiration of his weary days, and he was driven, wandering, into unfrequented streets that he might not recall, the places where she had once trod, and through the wakeful nights her voice haunted him,—­its laughter, its sweet notes of seriousness; little ways and manners of her look came to twist his heart, and he prayed God to take him, too, until it seemed that Cynthia frowned upon him for his weakness.  One mild Sunday afternoon, he took little Cynthia by the hand and led her, toddling, out into the sunny Common, where he used to walk with her mother, and the infant prattle seemed to bring—­at last a strange peace to his storm-tossed soul.

For many years these Sunday walks in the Common were Wetherell’s greatest pleasure and solace, and it seemed as though little Cynthia had come into the world with an instinct, as it were, of her mission that lent to her infant words a sweet gravity and weight.  Many people used to stop and speak to the child, among them a great physician whom they grew to know.  He was, there every Sunday, and at length it came to be a habit with him to sit down on the bench and take Cynthia on his knee, and his stern face would soften as he talked to her.

One Sunday when Cynthia was eight years old he missed them, and the next, and at dusk he strode into their little lodging behind the hill and up to the bedside.  He glanced at Wetherell, patting Cynthia on the head the while, and bade her cheerily to go out of the room.  But she held tight hold of her father’s hand and looked up at the doctor bravely.

“I am taking care of my father,” she said.

“So you shall, little woman,” he answered.  “I would that we had such nurses as you at the hospital.  Why didn’t you send for me at once?”

“I wanted to,” said Cynthia.

“Bless her good sense;” said the doctor; “she has more than you, Wetherell.  Why didn’t you take her advice?  If your father does not do as I tell him, he will be a very sick man indeed.  He must go into the country and stay there.”