quite natural and right that you should marry—and I hope you will have a son. But"—here she paused, and stroked the strong cold hand that lay in hers—"Elizabeth is a strange child, you know, Anthony. She may resent another's taking my place. What I want you to promise me is, that if she is not happy at home, you will not oblige her to live here with a stepmother. That would be so bad for her—so bad for her character, I mean. Let her go to her uncle for her holidays—or make any other arrangement; but don't force her to live here, when you have other ties, if she is unhappy."
It was strange to hear the poor little woman calmly discussing eventualities after her death. Anthony listened, as one in a dream. Presently he said—
"My wife, if this be true—if we are indeed to part before long—you take the best part of my life with you. Do not be troubled about the child. She will be my only companion until she marries; I promise you that."
"No; you must not say so. That is not what I meant," she interposed, with her calm decisiveness. "Your happiness is not to be sacrificed to her. You have yet many years, probably, before you; and your desire, I know, has always been that a son of yours should carry on the business. I hope it may yet be so, Anthony. I do, with all my heart."
He said nothing, and the subject was never again alluded to by either of them. But when his wife died, and the widower of fifty-seven, still a hale, vigorous man showed no disposition to choose another mate, his men-friends expressed their surprise; his women-friends—the friends of his late wife—felt distinctly aggrieved.
