Demaris set the table and spread upon it the simple meal which she had prepared. “I’ll stay with ma while you an’ pa eat,” said Nellie, with a sudden burst of unselfishness. “Well,” said Demaris, wearily. Mr. Ferguson sat down at the table and leaned his head on his hand. “I’m too tired to eat,” he said; “hungry’s I am.” He looked at the untempting meal of cold boiled meat, baked potatoes and apple sauce. Demaris did not lift her eyes as she sat down. She felt that she ought to say something cheerful, but her heart was too full of her own disappointment. She despised her selfishness even while yielding to it. “It does beat all about your ma,” said her father. “I can’t see where she gits that pain from. It ain’t nothin’ danger’s or it ’u’d a-killed her long ago. It almost seems ’s if she jests gits tired o’ bein’ well, an’ begins to git scared fer fear that pain’s a-comin’ on—an’ then it comes right on. I’ve heard her say lots o’ times that she’d been well a whole week now, but that she w’u’dn’t brag or that pain ’u’d come on—an’ inside of an hour it ’ud up an’ come on. It’s awful discouragin’.” “I wish I was dead!” said Demaris. Her father did not speak. His silence reproached her more than any words could have done. When she went into the bedroom again she found her mother crying childishly. “Demaris, did I hear you say you wished you was dead?” “I guess so. I said it.” “Well, God Almighty knows I wish I was! You don’t stop to think what ’u’d become o’ me ’f it wa’n’t fer you. Your pa c’u’dn’t hire anybody, an’ he’s gittin’ too old to set up o’ nights after workin’ hard all day. You’d like to see ’t all come on your little sister, I reckon.” Demaris thought of those slim, weak wrists, and shivered. Her mother commenced to sob—and that aggravated the pain. Demaris stooped and put her arms around her and kissed her. “I’m sorry I said it,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired an’ cross. You know I didn’t mean it.” Her father came in heavily. “Demaris,” he said, “Frank Vickers is comin’ ’round to the front door. I’ll take keer o’ your ma while you go in an’ see him.” It was a radiant-faced young fellow that walked into Demaris’s little parlor. He took her hand with a tenderness that brought the color beating into her cheeks. “What?” he said. “An’ you ain’t ready? Why, the boat leaves in an hour, an’ it’s a good, long walk to the wharf. You’ll have to hurry up, Demaris.” “I can’t go.” “You can’t go? Why can’t you?” She lifted her eyes bravely. Then tears swelled into them very slowly until they were full. Not one fell. She looked at him through them. He felt her hand trembling against the palm of his own. “Why can’t you, Demaris?” “My mother’s sick—just hear her moanin’ clear in here.” Young Vickers’s face was a study. “Why, she was sick last time I wanted to take you som’ers—to a dance, wasn’t it?” “Yes—I know.” “An’ time before that, when I wanted you to go to a church sociable up’n String Town.” “Yes.”