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 came by your place at this hour because I am just in the act of leaving here on the steamboat to-night.”

The Captain looked at Peter with concern on his face. “Leaving Hooker's Bend?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

Peter hesitated.

“Well, my mother is dead—”

“Yes, but your—your—your work is still here, Peter.” The Captain fell into a certain confusion. “A man's work, Peter; a man's work.”

“Do you mean my school-teaching?”

Then came a pause. The conversation somehow had managed to leave them both somewhat at sea. The Captain began again, in a different tone:

“Peter, I wish you to remain here with me for another reason. I am an old man, Peter. Anything could happen to me here in this big house, and nobody would know it. I don't like to think of it.” The old man's tone quite painted his fears. “I am not afraid of death, Peter. I have walked before God all my life save in one or two points, which, I believe, in His mercy, He has forgiven me; but I cannot endure the idea of being found here some day in some unconsidered posture, fallen out of a chair, or a-sprawl on the floor. I wish to die with dignity, Peter, as I have lived.”

“Then you mean that you want me to stay here with you until—until the end, Captain?”