“You carry that coffee straight, without spillin’ none of it, and we’ll talk about cake afterwards,” answered Sally severely. “Polly,” she continued, “seems to me we’ll come out pretty fair on expenses to-night; and by the next ball we’ll be makin’ our own ices, and do even better. Run now for just a minute and see how your Aunt Susan is, that’s a good girl. Laws! what a thing Providence is, to be sure. To think Dr. Richards should be so ill just at this minute! But there!” she thought within herself a moment later, “what call have I got to be talkin’ about Providence like that? The angel Gabriel himself couldn’t do her no good ef she’s struck with death.” A day or two after this, Susan was sitting alone in the bedroom which was shared by all three. It was scarcely a luxurious apartment; but there was a rag carpet on the floor and a fire in the little grate, which was more like luxury than any of Susan’s surroundings for many years. There were patchwork cushions, too, lining the great wooden rocker that gave so grateful a support to her tired frame; her calico dress was clean and whole, and a soft, warm shawl was folded round the thin shoulders. Yet there was no sign of pleasure in Susan’s face, no look of basking in creature comforts; she was very white and worn, and from time to time a large tear escaped from under her closed eyelid, and wandered down over the withered cheek. A little hand fumbling at the lock, the sound of small feet upon the floor, made her brush away these tokens of inward disturbance, and turn with a smile to greet Louis and his friend and accompanying shadow, George, the uninteresting. “Aunt Susan, we’ve come to amuse you a little,” said Louis half timidly; for there was something beyond his comprehension in the smile on that white face. “_I’ve_ come to jest that,” said Susan quietly, without a shadow of bitterness; “not as I ever was much to brag about, specially compared with Sally; but now I ain’t even fit to amuse a child, he has to amuse me.” Louis seated himself cross-legged on the floor at her feet, George imitating him to the letter, and looked up gravely into her face. “My papa says,” he continued, “that he hopes you are better, and if you could take a little walk it would do you good.” “Nothin’ won’t ever do me no good no more, Louis, not in this world.” “And Aunt Sally says,” continued the boy, so anxious for the accurate transmission of his message as to pass by this remark, “Aunt Sally says, if you feel strong enough, you could take a walk with me and George, and if you don’t, we can ’muse you a little bit.” “Bless your sweet eyes,” said Susan, “I ain’t strong enough hardly to walk across this room, Louis, let alone goin’ out o’ doors.” Louis pondered over this for a moment pitifully; it was quite incomprehensible to his childish vigor. Then, his mind reverting to his own concerns, he brought out, as most of us do, the subject which lay uppermost.