Never was there a kinder or more helpful soul than Betty, now a tall and beautiful girl of fourteen. Mrs. Washington’s health was much shattered by this last and greatest sorrow and Laurence, who had always been of a delicate constitution, became every day more feeble. George attended him assiduously, rarely leaving him. He persuaded his brother to ride out and take some interest in the place. He read to Laurence of evenings in the library, and tried to interest him with accounts of the new regions in which the younger brother had spent so many months. Nothing could ever make Laurence Washington a happy man again, but by George’s efforts he was saved from falling into utter melancholy. Mrs. Washington’s sorrow, though as great, was better controlled. She always managed to wear a cheerful look before her husband, and although she was not able to accompany him in his out-door life, she was with him every moment he spent in-doors. Betty was to her as great a comfort as George was to Laurence Washington. Betty had so tender a heart and so excellent an understanding that she was as helpful as a woman twice her age, and these two young creatures, George and Betty, were mainstays and comforts at an age when most young creatures rely wholly on other people. All day they were engaged, each in gentle and untiring efforts to make life a little brighter to their brother and sister. But after the older persons had retired every night George and Betty would sit up over the fire in the library and talk for hours. Their conversations were not always sad--it is not natural for the young to dwell in sadness--but they were generally serious. One night Betty said: “Don’t you think, George, we ought to write to our mother and ask her to let us stay over Christmas with brother Laurence and sister Anne? You remember how gay it was last Christmas, and how glad we were to be here? Now, I think when they are in great trouble, we ought to be as willing to stay with them as when they were happy and bright and could make us enjoy ourselves.” “Betty,” answered George, in admiration, “why did I not think of this? I see it is just what we ought to do.” “Because,” said Betty, promptly, “women are much more thoughtful than men, and girls are much more thoughtful than boys.” George did not dispute this, as he had been taught never to call in question any woman’s goodness, and in his heart he believed them to be all as good as his mother and Betty and his sister Anne. The lesson of chivalry towards all women had been early and deeply taught him, and it was a part of the fibre of his being. “And shall I write and ask our mother to let us stay?” asked George, humbly. “No,” replied Betty, with a slight accent of scorn; “you might not ask it in the right way. I shall write myself.”