By Berwen Banks

Valmai's trembling voice failed, and letting the letter drop, she

covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of tears, as she

realised that her best friend had slipped away from her. In the

trouble and anxiety which had latterly clouded her life, she had often

been comforted by the thought that at all events there was one warm

heart and home open to her, but now all was lost, and her loneliness

and friendlessness pressed heavily upon her. Sob after sob shook her

whole frame.

Essec Powell picked up the letter, and read it again.

"Well, well," he said, "to think that John, my brother, should go

before me! Poor fellow, bâch! To be taken so suddenly and unprepared

as he was."

"Oh, no, uncle," said Valmai, between her sobs, "he was not unprepared.

There never was a kinder soul, a more unselfish man, nor a more

generous. Oh, you don't know how good he was to the poor, how kind and

gentle to every one who suffered! Oh, God has him in His safe keeping

somewhere!"

"Well, well," said Essec Powell, sitting down to his dinner, "we won't

argue about it now, but some day, Valmai, I would like to explain to

you the difference between that natural goodness and the saving grace

which is necessary for salvation. Come to dinner, Valmai. I wonder

how much did he leave? When is the funeral?" he said, addressing Gwen.

"You've got to go down and settle that," she answered. "Will I tell

Shoni to put the gig ready?"

"Yes, yes. I better go. I will be back by Sunday."

"James Harris will help you in every way, uncle, and will settle

everything for you."

"Oh! very well, very well. Tis a pity about the 'Mabinogion,' too; but

we'll go on with them next week, Valmai."

Shoni and Gwen continued until bedtime to discuss with unction every

item of information past, possible, or prospective, connected with the

death of the old Captain, while Valmai lay on the old red sofa, and

thought sadly of her loss.

"There's sudden," said Gwen, "but 'twill be a good thing for the

master, whatever!"

Valmai lay awake far into the night recalling with tears the kindness

and even tenderness of her old uncle.

On the following Saturday Essec Powell returned from the funeral, and

as he stepped out of the gig at the door, his face wore an unusual

expression which Valmai noticed at once. He seemed more alive to the

world around him; there was a red spot on each cheek, and he did not

answer his niece's low greeting, but walked into the parlour with a

stamping tread very unlike his usual listless shuffle.

"Are you tired, uncle?" the girl asked gently.

"No, I am not tired; but I am hurt and offended with you, Valmai. You

are a sly, ungrateful girl, and it is very hard on me, a poor,

struggling preacher very badly paid, to find that my only brother has

left all his worldly goods to you, who are already well provided for.

What do you think yourself? Wasn't it a shame on you to turn him

against his brother?"