"Hardly," she said. "No, that is very unlikely. Walter and I have to be careful now about every penny we spend. I think we shall have a snug Christmas together at home this year." Then she stooped to kiss me—she was the tallest, you know. "Kitty, you must be brave," says she. "You and I will feel very much being parted, after so many weeks together, and I shall miss your mother sorely. But we have to be brave, dear. After all, though friendship brings with it the pain of saying goodbye, one wouldn't be without the friendship, would one?" "No," I said; and I was thinking of Mr. Russell. I was so glad she took my distress as having only to do with herself—if she really did, which I have my doubts about now. I've a notion she and mother thought it was a case of "least said" about her brother being "soonest mended." We saw her off early in the afternoon of next day; and oh, how I longed to send a message to Mr. Russell; but I didn't dare. A word of remembrance would have been natural enough, only I knew I could not say it without flushing up and perhaps crying. And mother didn't speak of him either. She never seemed to give him a thought, no more than if there hadn't been such a person alive. And father only said: "Mind, Mary, you are to come again. You'll always be welcome." She was "Mary" to all of us by then. How strange the house did look without her! She had grown to be part of it, part of ourselves; and I didn't guess how much I loved her till she was gone, nor what a gap her quiet face would leave. Mother was more silent than usual that afternoon, and hardly said a word about Mary going. I wondered at first, knowing how fond those two had grown of each other. Then when mother had to speak about putting the bed upstairs again out of the parlour, she choked, and couldn't go on for a minute. "I'm a stupid," says she. "Kitty, you run off and get a blow on the common. That'll do you good, and when you come back I'll be myself again. I'll make you a cup of tea, and then you needn't hurry," says she. "Father won't be in till late to-day." "But you'll be dull, mother," I said. "I don't know as there's any harm in being dull," says she. "When it comes in the way of one's duty, I mean. Folks have got to go through dull times, as well as lively times; and maybe they're none the worse after." "Only, if I stay in—" said I. "That's no good," says she. "Two dull folks don't make one cheerful one, however much they're mixed. You put on the kettle, sharp, and cut a slice of bread-and-butter. Yes; you've got to eat that; it don't matter whether you want to eat or don't want; and then you'll go and get a big bunch of wild-flowers. Mind you don't sit on the grass and brood."