"But, Mother, you've always lived in dread. Mark used to say that the telegraph boys drew lots among themselves as to who should bring the telegrams to our house. You used to rush out with the unopened envelope and implore the boy to tell you if it were bad news, and when you did open it your frightened eyes read things that never were on the paper. If we happened to be all at home when you were confronted with a wire you didn't care a bit--utterly callous. It was only your husband and your children you cared about--ah, well, you had the richest, fullest, happiest life for more than thirty years, and that's not so small a thing to boast of." "Oh, Ann, I'm not ungrateful, only----" "Only you're like Davie when we told him to go away and count his blessings. 'I've done it,' he came back to tell us, 'and I've six things to be thankful for and nine to be unthankful for.'" Mrs. Douglas laughed as she went back to her chair by the fire and took up her knitting. "No, I've nothing to be unthankful for, only I think so much of me died with your father and Robbie and Davie that I seem to be half with you and half with them where they are gone." Ann nodded. "That may be so, but you are more alive than most of us even now. I don't know anybody who takes so much interest in life, who has such a capacity for enjoyment, who burdens herself with other people's burdens as that same Mrs. Douglas who says she is only half-alive and longs to depart--and here is Mysie with the tea." Mysie lit the lamp under the kettle and arranged the tea-things. She drew the curtains across the windows, shutting out the last gleam of the stormy sunset, and turned on the lights, then she stood by the door and, blushing, asked if she might go out for the evening, as she had an engagement. "Now where"--cried Mrs. Douglas as the door closed behind the little maid--"where in the world can Mysie have an engagement in this out-of-the-world place on this dark, stormy night?" Ann smiled. "She's so pretty, Mother, so soft and round and young, and have you forgotten: 'For though the nicht be ne'er sae dark, An' I be ne'er sae weary O, I'll meet ye by the lea-rig, Ma ain kind dearie O.' I haven't a doubt but that pretty Mysie has got a 'lawd.' And what for no? I do hope Marget isn't too discouraging to the child." Ann sat on the fender-stool with her cup and saucer, and a pot of jam on the rug beside her, and a plate with a crumpet on her lap, and ate busily. "Life is still full of pleasant things, Mums, pretty girls and crumpets, and strawberry jam, and fender-stools, and blazing fires, and little moaning mothers who laugh even while they cry. Your pessimism is like the bubbles on a glass of champagne--oh, I know you have been a teetotaller all your days, but that doesn't harm my metaphor." "Ann, you amaze me. How you can rattle on as if you hadn't a care in the world--you who have lost so much!"