"Where is Mavis?" she asked Rose, at length. Then, on being informed that the little girl was downstairs in the parlour, she inquired, "How is it I never hear her singing now?" "Oh, mother, she would not sing now you are ill," Rose replied. "She would not disturb me—I think I should like to hear her. It must be a privation to her not to sing." "I don't think she has felt much like singing lately. We've all been so troubled about you—Mavis too. Oh, I don't know how I could have borne it whilst you were so dreadfully ill, if it had not been for Mavis!" "What do you mean, Rose?" "She kept up my heart about you, mother. And she's been so good to us all—helping Jane with the housework, lending Bob her games and keeping him amused, and doing everything she could to cheer us up. Wouldn't you like to see her?" "Yes," assented Mrs. John, "to-morrow, perhaps." So the following day found Mavis by her aunt's bedside, looking with sympathetic eyes at the wan face on the pillow. "I'm so glad you're so much better, Aunt Lizzie," she whispered softly. "You'll soon get strong now." "I hope so, Mavis. My illness has spoiled your holidays, I fear. You must have had a very dull time." "A very sad, anxious time," Mavis said gravely; "but never mind—that's past." "And you will soon forget it," her aunt remarked, with a faint smile. "Oh no, Aunt Lizzie, I'm not likely to do that! But I'd so much rather look forward to your being well again. We were all so wretched when you were so terribly ill, and now God has made us happy and glad. Why, I feel I could sing for joy!" "I think you rarely find difficulty in doing that, Mavis; you are so light-hearted." "Not always, Aunt Lizzie; but I do try to be." "Why?" Mrs. John inquired, in surprise. "Because Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,'" Mavis answered, seriously. "I try not to be troubled or afraid," she continued; "but it's very, very hard not to be sometimes. I found that when mother went away; nothing seemed to matter much when we were together, but after she'd gone—oh, then it was different. I felt my heart would break, it ached so badly, but—are you sure I am not tiring you, Aunt Lizzie?" "No; I like to hear you talk. Go on—tell me all you felt when your mother went away." Mavis complied. She would have opened her heart to her aunt before, if she had ever had the least encouragement to make her her confidante. By-and-by, she became aware that there were tears in the sunken eyes which were watching the varying expressions of her countenance, and she ceased speaking abruptly. "You must have been very lonely and sad, child," Mrs. John said. "I never realized you felt the parting from your mother so much. I wish I had known; but I thought—"