It was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the possessor of a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition to their wardrobes. "I want a hundred dollars," said my sister Jane, on the next morning, as my father was about leaving for his store. "Can't spare it to-day, my child," I heard him answer, kindly, but firmly. "Oh, but I must have it," urged my sister. "I gave you twenty-five dollars only day before yesterday," my father replied to this. "What have you done with that?" "Spent it for gloves and laces," said Jane, in a light way, as if the sum were of the smallest possible consequence. "I am not made of money, child." The tone of my father's voice struck me as unusually sober--almost sad. But Jane replied instantly, and with something of reproach and complaint in her tones--"I shouldn't think you were, if you find it so hard to part with a hundred dollars." "I have a large payment to make to-day"--my father spoke with unusual decision of manner--"and shall need every dollar that I can raise." "You gave sister a hundred dollars yesterday," said Jane, almost petulantly. Not a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and saw an expression on his countenance that was new to me--an expression of pain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in silence left the house. "Jane," said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which she had been standing, "how could you speak so to your father?" "I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna," replied my sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im going to have one." "What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?" asked my mother. "Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an excuse!" "Stop, my child!" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusual feeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who has ever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you are saying!" My sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when my mother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I could not help remarking as singular, "Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going on to his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking the floor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful. His health is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low. Don't, let me pray you, do anything to worry him. Say no more about this money, Jane; you will get it whenever it can be spared." I did not see my father again until tea-time. Occasionally, business engagements pressed upon him so closely that he did not come home at the usual hour for dining. He looked pale--weary--almost haggard. "Dear father, are you sick?" said I, laying a hand upon him, and gazing earnestly into his countenance.