"I think you have plenty of courage," the old man answered, "and a better Friend than I can be. One who can go with you, and yet be with the children at home. Is it not so?" "Oh, it is—it is indeed! Yes, I can say that sincerely." "Then you serve my Master, and so you need never be afraid, for you will be cared for. God bless you, child." Janet left the shop with that blessing warm at her heart. She went home, and busied herself in getting the boys' clothes together and packing them. She took a cabinet photograph of her husband and cut away the edges, to make it fit into a little miniature case she had among her few ornaments: this she meant to give to Frank. She made a list of the things in the trunk, which she carefully packed for the children. While thus employed, the answer to her telegram was sent on from Bold Street. It was brief, but said that a vehicle should be at the station to meet the 12 a.m. train. Then the boys came home from school, and Janet nearly broke down when she heard their shout of rejoicing when they saw her at that unusual hour. When she had given them their dinner, she took Fred on her knee and put her arm round Frank, as he stood beside her. "Now, listen to me, my little boys. I have something to tell you which you will not like, and neither do I; but it cannot be helped, and I want you both to be good—very good—and so help me to bear it. For I must go away and leave you for a time, and—and—it nearly breaks my heart." "Leave us—here, muddie?" Frank said, fixing his blue eyes on her face, and growing white in the endeavour to "be good." "Won't be left," said Fred, sturdily; "we go wif you." "Not here, Frank, and not alone. To-morrow, I shall take you to a beautiful place in the country, where I hope to leave you with grandma. There you will have green fields to run about in, and grandma to take care of you. You remember grandma, Fred, don't you?" Frank had slipped down, and sat on the floor at his mother's feet, staring up at her, and keeping unnaturally still, with every trace of colour gone from his face. And there he still sat, when Fred had forgotten all about this terrible parting and was playing merrily about the room, and Janet was completing the packing of the box. "Why must you go, muddie?" he cried at last, catching at her dress as she passed him. "My darling, my little Frank, don't look like that. I would not leave you if—if I could help it. Father is ill and, wants me. When he is well, you shall both come to us." She sat down and lifted him upon her knee. "The time will pass quickly, Frank. See, here is father's picture—I give it to you; keep it safe, and show it to Fred, that he may remember him. And you will be good, and not make poor muddie fret. And you will take care of Fred, and try to keep him from being troublesome to grandma." "I will try," Frank said. "May I go to bed, muddie? I'm tired, and don't want any supper to-day."