"There's not so much money here as I thought," he acknowledged ruefully, "but still, more than enough to pay the importunate milkman, I dare say. You can tell Mrs. Steer to let me have the account—I suppose I must have had it before, but I've not the least idea where I put it—and I'll settle it, at once. How pleased you look, child!" She was very pleased, as her glowing face showed plainly. The household bills weighed upon her now as they had weighed upon her mother in the years gone by. Poor Mrs. Willis had been a "veritable Martha," as her husband had sometimes called her; he had never understood, though he had loved her dearly, why she had allowed herself to be troubled about many things. Angel flew downstairs in search of Mrs. Steer, whom she met bearing a laden tray to one of her lodgers' rooms. "Will you please let father have the milkman's account and he will pay it," the little girl said quickly; "he had forgotten about it." "Oh, indeed!" responded Mrs. Steer. "Then I am glad you reminded him of it, miss. He shall have the account presently." "I am going to make toast for tea," Angel explained, as she turned into her own sitting-room. "Dear me," she added to herself, "how very glad I am father is going to pay the milkman! I was so afraid he might not have money enough. It would be horrid to drink tea without milk; and I expect the poor man wants his money badly too. Oh, how I wish we never had to go into debt for any thing! Mother used to say she would be perfectly happy if she never owed any one a penny. Poor mother!" Angel took a loaf of bread and a toasting fork from a cupboard in the sideboard, and proceeded carefully to cut some slices; then she knelt down on the hearth-rug, and commenced her toast making. Presently Gerald returned from school, and, flinging his bag of books and his cap into one corner of the room, came to his sister's side. He was a fair, good-looking boy, very like his father, and tall for his age. "What a jolly fire!" he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hands towards the glowing coals. "Make a nice lot of toast, Angel, for I'm as hungry as a hunter. What have you been doing all the afternoon?" "Oh, much as usual," she answered in rather a depressed tone. "Darning your socks, and father's—and thinking." "You're always thinking. I cannot imagine what you find to think about." "About mother, mostly. I wonder if she knows how we are getting on, and how much we miss her. There are some things I should like her to know—but not all! I like to think she is very happy, never troubled or sorry, and—oh, I know she is really happy with God, but I keep on thinking, and wondering—" "Well, don't!" he interposed affectionately. "You're moped, Angel, that's what you are." "Perhaps I am," she acknowledged; "I've been alone all day, and I've been so dull; and—and the milkman wanted his account settled, and I had to speak to father about it."