Of all the visitors, the most effectual assistant was Mrs. Quale. She gossiped, it is true, or it had not been Mrs. Quale; but she gave efficient help; and the invalid was always glad to see her come in, which could not be said with regard to all. Daffodil's Delight was not wrong in the judgment it passed upon Mary Baxendale--that she was a 'poor creature.' True; poor as to being clever in a domestic point of view, and in attending upon the sick. In mind, in cultivation, in refinement, in gentleness, Mary Baxendale beat Daffodil's Delight hollow; she was also a beautiful seamstress; but in energy and capability Mary was sadly wanting. She was timid always--painfully timid in the sick-room; anxious to do for her mother all that was requisite, but never knowing how to set about it. Mrs. Quale remedied this; she did the really efficient part; Mary gave love and gentleness; and, between the two, Mrs. Baxendale was thankful and happy. John Baxendale, not a demonstrative man, was full of concern and grief. His had been a very happy home, free from domestic storms and clouds; and, to lose his wife, was anything but a cheering prospect. His wages were good, and they had wanted for nothing, not even for peace. To such, when trouble comes, it seems hard to bear--it almost seems as if it came as a _wrong_. 'Just hold your tongue, John Baxendale,' cried Mrs. Quale one day, upon hearing him express something to this effect. 'Because you have never had no crosses, is it any reason that you never shall? No. Crosses come to us all sometime in our lives, in one shape or other.' 'But it's a hard thing for it to come in this shape,' retorted Baxendale, pointing to the bed. 'I'm not repining or rebelling against what it pleases God to do; but I can't _see_ the reason of it. Look at some of the other wives in Daffodil's Delight; shrieking, raving trollops, turning their homes into a bear-garden with their tempers, and driving their husbands almost mad. If some of them were taken they'd never be missed: just the contrary.' 'John,' interposed Mrs. Baxendale, in her quiet voice, 'when I am gone up there'--pointing with her finger to the blue October sky--'it may make you think more of the time when you must come; may help you to be preparing for it, better than you have done.' Mary lifted her wan face, glowing now with the excitement of the thought. 'Father, _that_ may be the end--the reason. I think that troubles are sent to us in mercy, not in anger.' 'Think!' ejaculated Mrs. Quale, tossing back her head with a manner less reverent than her words. 'Before you shall have come to my age, girl, it's to be hoped you'll _know_ they are. Isn't it time for the medicine?' she continued, seeing no other opening for a reprimand just then. It was time for the medicine, and Mrs. Quale poured it out, raised the invalid from her pillow, and administered it. John Baxendale looked on. Like his daughter Mary, he was in these matters an incapable man.