“Or crooning to her the story of the Cross,” said Anna; “and as soon as one is ended she begins it again, and Lena will not let her miss or alter a single word.” “They go on more than half the night,” added Phyllis. “Bear sat up long over his letters and accounts, and as he went up he heard the crooning, and looked in; and the very moment Angela paused, there came the little plaintive voice, ‘Go on, please.’ ‘Women are following’—” “But is not that spoiling her?” asked Bessie. A look of sad meaning passed between her two companions. Phyllis shook her head slightly, and, instead of answering, conducted Bessie on to the bank, when Angela looked up and made a sign that she could not move or speak, for the child was asleep. The yellow head was shaded by Angela’s parasol, the thin hair lying ruffled on the black dress, and the small face looked more pinched than when the aunt had last seen it, nearly a year previously. She had watched the decay of aged folks, but she was unused to the illnesses of children; and she recoiled with a little shock, as she looked down at the little wasted face, with a slight flush of sleep. “Recovery from measles,” she said. Phyllis smiled a little pitifully as her own little girl, all radiant with health and joy, came skipping up, performing antics over her father’s hand. “Take care, Lily, don’t wake poor little Lena,” was murmured quietly. “Northern breezes—” began Bessie, but the voices had broken the light slumber; and as Angela began, “See, Lena, here is Aunt Bessie,” the effect was to make her throw herself over Angela’s shoulder and hide her face; and when her protector tried to turn her round and reason her into courtesy, she began to cry in a feeble manner. “She has had a bad night,” said motherly Phyllis; “let her alone.” “May not I get down into the boat?” asked Lily. “I’ll be very good.”