Her brother had died before. I was to be the son of the
old people. We were sure that after awhile they would be attracted by our
happy home, and by our fireside all their wanderings would end. They
should be free as in the forests.... It is all changed now--but I am still
their son, and I wish nothing better than to work for them. The old man is
failing, and I think that I shall yet persuade them to come and live with
me--we might be one family still--and it would please her. If I succeed,
there are two or three rooms close by where we can be tolerably happy,
all together. God is not indifferent. He sees all. And sure I am that He
bears me no ill will. So it must be for the best. She used to wear this
ribbon around her splendid hair. She was so young and gay! It would have
done you good to look at such a face. Sometimes I catch myself thinking
what a long, gay life we ought to have lived together--and I know there's
no wickedness in that. It's more pleasant than bitter."
"So you support the old people," was the listener's sole comment. Not
loss, but fidelity--not grief, but constancy, impressed him while he
hearkened to this story.
"I have adopted them," answered the organist.
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