now hung by a thread so slight that her simple will might snap it.

But her will, fortunately, was as faint as her consciousness; she
gradually drifted out of danger, taking her returning strength with

a passive acquiescence rather than with joy. She was hardly paler
than her wont, but the lurking shadow seemed to have vanished from

her eyes, and John Vincent felt that her features had assumed a new
expression, the faintlyperceptible stamp of some spiritual change.

It was a happy day for him when, propped against his breast and
gently held by his warm, strong arm, the twin boys were first

brought to be laid upon her lap. Two staring, dark-faced
creatures, with restless fists and feet, they were alike in every

least feature of their grotesque animality. Phebe placed a hand
under the head of each, and looked at them for a long time in

silence.
"Why is this?" she said, at last, taking hold of a narrow pink

ribbon, which was tied around the wrist of one.
"He's the oldest, sure," the nurse answered. "Only by fifteen

minutes or so, but it generally makes a difference when twins come
to be named; and you may see with your own eyes that there's no

telling of 'em apart otherways."
"Take off the ribbon, then," said Phebe quietly; "_I_ know them."

"Why, ma'am, it's always done, where they're so like! And I'll
never be able to tell which is which; for they sleep and wake and

feed by the same clock. And you might mistake, after all, in
giving 'em names--"

"There is no oldest or youngest, John; they are two and yet one:
this is mine, and this is yours."

"I see no difference at all, Phebe," said John; "and how can we
divide them?"

"We will not divide," she answered; "I only meant it as a sign."
She smiled, for the first time in many days. He was glad of heart,

but did not understand her. "What shall we call them?" he
asked. "Elias and Reuben, after our fathers?"

"No, John; their names must be David and Jonathan."
And so they were called. And they grew, not less, but more alike,

in passing through the stages of babyhood. The ribbon of the older
one had been removed, and the nurse would have been distracted, but

for Phebe's almost miraculousinstinct. The former comforted
herself with the hope that teething would bring a variation to the

two identical mouths; but no! they teethed as one child. John,
after desperate attempts, which always failed in spite of the

headaches they gave him, postponed the idea of distinguishing one
from the other, until they should be old enough to develop some

dissimilarity of speech, or gait, or habit. All trouble might have
been avoided, had Phebe consented to the least variation in their

dresses; but herein she was mildly immovable.
"Not yet," was her set reply to her husband; and one day, when he

manifested a little annoyance at her persistence, she turned to
him, holding a child on each knee, and said with a gravity which

silenced him thenceforth: "John, can you not see that our burden
has passed into them? Is there no meaning in this--that two

children who are one in body and face and nature, should be given
to us at our time of life, after such long disappointment and

trouble? Our lives were held apart; theirs were united before they
were born, and I dare not turn them in different directions.

Perhaps I do not know all that the Lord intended to say to us,
in sending them; but His hand is here!"

"I was only thinking of their good," John meekly answered. "If
they are spared to grow up, there must be some way of knowing one

from the other."
"THEY will not need it, and I, too, think only of them. They

have taken the cross from my heart, and I will lay none on theirs.
I am reconciled to my life through them, John; you have been very

patient and good with me, and I will yield to you in all things but
in this. I do not think I shall live to see them as men grown;

yet, while we are together, I feel clearly what it is right to do.
Can you not, just once, have a little faith without knowledge,

John?"
"I'll try, Phebe," he said. "Any way, I'll grant that the boys

belong to you more than to me."
Phebe Vincent's character had verily changed. Her attacks of semi-

hysterical despondency never returned; her gloomy prophecies
ceased. She was still grave, and the trouble of so many years

never wholly vanished from her face; but she performed every duty
of her life with at least a quiet willingness, and her home became

the abode of peace; for passive content wears longer than
demonstrative happiness.

David and Jonathan grew as one boy: the taste and temper of one was
repeated in the other, even as the voice and features. Sleeping or

waking, grieved or joyous, well or ill, they lived a single life,
and it seemed so natural for one to answer to the other's name,

that they probably would have themselves confused their own
identities, but for their mother's unerring knowledge. Perhaps

unconsciously guided by her, perhaps through the voluntary action
of their own natures, each quietly took the other's place when

called upon, even to the sharing of praise or blame at school, the
friendships and quarrels of the playground. They were healthy and

happy lads, and John Vincent was accustomed to say to his
neighbors, "They're no more trouble than one would be; and yet

they're four hands instead of two."
Phebe died when they were fourteen, saying to them, with almost her

latest breath, "Be one, always!" Before her husband could decide
whether to change her plan of domestic education, they were passing

out of boyhood, changing in voice, stature, and character with a
continued likeness which bewildered and almost terrified him. He

procured garments of different colors, but they were accustomed to
wear each article in common, and the result was only a mixture of

tints for both. They were sent to different schools, to be
returned the next day, equally pale, suffering, and incapable of

study. Whatever device was employed, they evaded it by a mutual
instinct which rendered all externalmeasures unavailing. To John

Vincent's mind their resemblance was an accidental misfortune,
which had been confirmed through their mother's fancy. He felt

that they were bound by some deep, mysterious tie, which, inasmuch
as it might interfere with all practical aspects of life, ought to

be gradually weakened. Two bodies, to him, implied two distinct
men, and it was wrong to permit a mutualdependence which

prevented either from exercising his own separate will and
judgment.

But, while he was planning and pondering, the boys became young
men, and he was an old man. Old, and prematurely broken; for he

had worked much, borne much, and his large frame held only a
moderate measure of vital force. A great weariness fell upon him,

and his powers began to give way, at first slowly, but then with
accelerated failure. He saw the end coming, long before his sons

suspected it; his doubt, for their sakes, was the only thing which
made it unwelcome. It was "upon his mind" (as his Quaker neighbors

would say) to speak to them of the future, and at last the proper
moment came.

It was a stormy November evening. Wind and rain whirled and drove
among the trees outside, but the sitting-room of the old farm-house

was bright and warm. David and Jonathan, at the table, with their
arms over each other's backs and their brown locks mixed together,

read from the same book: their father sat in the ancient rocking-
chair before the fire, with his feet upon a stool. The housekeeper

and hired man had gone to bed, and all was still in the house.