"Not exactly ill," Mary said. "She isn't ill in body. The blow seems all to have fallen on her poor mind. I don't mean that she's out of her mind, you know. There's nothing to be frightened about; only she's in a kind of stupefied state, and one can't rouse her. She can't see things straight, and there's no getting certain notions out of her head. She is in what the doctors call a 'morbid' state. We hope she will be better by-and-by." "I don't know what 'morbid' is," I said. "I think it means that her mind is sick instead of her body," Mary said. "And we have to be very patient with her." "May I see her?" I asked. "Yes," Mary says again. "In a day or two, before you go away." "Am I going?" I asked, still with the dull feeling that I didn't care. "Yes, you are to have a change. I don't think you'll guess where," says Mary, trying to smile. "Where?" I asked. "With you, Mary?" "No, dear; I must see after your mother," Mary said. "No, it's Mrs. Withers you're going to. Mrs. Withers has asked you to her house for a visit. You remember Mrs. Withers, Mr. Armstrong's sister-in-law." Ah, didn't I remember the only time I'd seen her! But Mary went on: "Mr. Armstrong's wife was her sister, and Mrs. Withers' husband has a living a few miles out of Littleburgh. You are to go there for two or three weeks, to be fed up and taken care of; and you will help a little with the children." "I don't want to go. I want to be with you," I said, mournful enough. "You will come back to me by-and-by," Mary says. "Here! Will you be here still?" I wanted to know. Mary didn't speak directly. "No, not here," she said. "There will have to be changes." "What changes?" I asked, getting frightened. "Dear Kitty, haven't you ever thought," says she, "that you and your mother can't stay on here? The house will be wanted for—somebody else." For another stationmaster in my father's place. I had not thought of that, and it broke me down afresh. To leave our home, the dear little home where he had always been; it seemed more than I could bear. "Kitty, there's only one way to take it," Mary whispered. "God sends the trouble, and it is His will. If you will have it from His Hand, He will give comfort with the pain." But in those days I only loved my own will, not the will of my Heavenly Father. We didn't say any more then, for I had had enough. Still, I was not satisfied, and I kept thinking over all that had to be, and later in the day I asked Mary— "Where will mother and I have to live?" "Nothing is settled yet," Mary answered. "We shall see better in a few weeks. When you are gone to Mrs. Withers, I shall take Mrs. Phrynne to my old home." Take mother to Littleburgh! I didn't notice the word "old," or I should not have been so surprised. To think of mother under the same roof with Walter Russell did astonish me.