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 kerchief she tenderly wiped away two large tear-drops that were trickling down the furrowed cheeks.

"Have I? Well, that's queer. I must have been dreaming. They were happy dreams, though, if there were tears with 'em. And you—have you been dreaming, too?" with a quick glance at her face.

"I have not had the chance yet," she said, evasively. "I will tell you to-morrow'—this with a forced little laugh.

"To-morrow!" he repeated. "Well, then, to-morrow. May your dreams, child, be happy now and always. Good-night, darling.'

"Good-night, dearest," she answered. The old man folded her lovingly in his arms for a moment, and pressed upon her lips one long, lingering kiss. His eyes followed her as she lit a candle and went out.

She reached her chamber, and put down the candlestick on the little table by the window. She looked into its flickering flame. "If the light be out, then I shall know that my hopes are too," he had said. "That shall be my farewell."

Ah the decision was hard—far harder than she had first thought. She drew the curtains to one side, and looked out. Patches of dark grey cloud, which gained now and again gleams of evanescent light from the pale, cold moon, were moving fleetly on. Very quiet the village seemed, and Mary found herself wondering whether under any roof therein there was any such question trembling in the balance as that which she was now called on to decide. She again glanced upward, as though seeking inspiration. Like twin sentinels she now saw twinkling through the drifting clouds two stars—one symbolising duty; the other love. Which should be her lamp? She drew a deep breath, half sob, and put out the light. That was her answer.

Mary's sleep was a troubled, broken one. She could not have slept very long, as it seemed to her, when she awoke with a shiver, and—What was that? The candle was alight! By what magic had this been done? She had put it out of that she was certain. Could she have risen in her sleep and re-lit it? She raised herself on her elbow—now quite awake; and, as she did so, felt a gust of cold air on her face. She looked whence it came, and saw that the door, which she had firmly closed, was partly open. She sprang out of bed, hurriedly drew a shawl around her, put on her slippers, took the candle, and passed out. She listened at her father's bedroom. No sound within. She opened the door. No one there, and the bed had not been slept in. She hastened below in great fear and trembling.

And there she found him, his head resting on a dusty old cabinet, which she never remembered having seen before. Just beside the arm which served him as a pillow was an envelope, which she read, even in that anxious moment, "For an old debt."

"Fallen asleep again, poor dear," thought Mary aloud. Then, "Father!"

No response. She touched him on the shoulder. Still no reply. "Father! Father!" This time in pathetic, wailing accents. But the sleeper still slept on. He had paid the last great debt of all, and had gone to render his account.