So tears had to stop, for choosing of footsteps, and I don't know to this day how we got over the rough ground back to the road. Mother wouldn't let go of me for a moment, and Mary guided us both. The moon went behind a cloud soon, but it didn't matter, for by that time we had gas-lamps. All through the longish way back mother clung to me fast, like one who has found a lost treasure. I was that tired at last, I scarce knew how to drag one foot after the other; only I could not complain, I was so happy. And now and then Mary whispered, "Cheer up, Kitty; we'll soon be there! And it's been worth while," says she. And oh, hadn't it been? Mother didn't talk nor ask any questions. She kept on, in a sort of murmur to herself— "Kitty! little Kitty! my Kitty!" —and that was all. When we got indoors, Mary lighted a second candle, to brighten up the room. Mother stood holding me fast still, not willing to let go. "Hadn't Kitty better sit down, Mrs. Phrynne?" says Mary. "She's been on her feet such a time." "Kitty yes," mother said. "Kitty's tired! Poor little Kitty!" "Poor little Kitty!" Mary echoed in a quiet voice. "Did you go to look for Kitty among the rocks, I wonder?" Mother shook her head. She wouldn't say what took her there, and she never would say nor talk about it afterward. Only, from the day I came back, she stopped all her lonesome walks, and only wanted to have me with her. I couldn't sit down, mother held me so tight, and a feeling came as if I should drop if I went on any longer. I'd done a lot that day, you see. Mary saw, for she always saw everything, and I suppose I did look white. She took a candle, and held it up near my face. Then mother saw too. "Poor little Kittenkins!" says she tenderly, exactly as father used to do. It had been father's name for me, not mother's. She put me down on the sofa, just as if I was a little child, and I let her do it. Then she spread a shawl over my feet, and took a chair close by, laying one hand on mine, and sitting there to keep watch. "Shut your eyes and go to sleep," says she. Wasn't it sweet to have mother telling me what to do again? I followed her bidding, and sleep wasn't long coming. When I opened my eyes, mother sat there still. She hadn't stirred a finger. And I had slept two good hours at one stretch. Mary didn't share mother's room with her that night after all, for mother would have nobody but me; and Mary was only glad to have it so. CHAPTER XIV. RUPERT'S RETURN. No; mother wasn't her old self altogether; I soon found that. The great blow of father's death had left a weakness. She was busy and contented, and didn't murmur; but there was just a touch of weakness. Most likely there always would be, the doctors said. She took to calling me "Kittenkins" after I came back, and we couldn't cure her of it; so soon we left off trying. It didn't matter, so long as she was pleased.