"Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling," she said, cheerfully. "Phillis is quite right: we will not talk any more to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-morrow. We will just say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, and hope that things may turn out better than we expect." And, as Mrs. Challoner was too utterly spent to resist this wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious mission with some success. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her head against her mother's pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgotten her troubles for a little while. "Poor dear mother! how exhausted she must have been!" thought Nan, as she closed the door softly. She was far too anxious and wide awake herself to dream of retiring to rest. She was somewhat surprised to find her sisters' room dark and empty as she passed. They must be still downstairs, talking over things in the firelight: they were as little inclined for sleep as she was. Phillis's carefully decocted tea must have stimulated them to wakefulness. The room was still bright with firelight. Dulce was curled up in her mother's chair, and had evidently been indulging in what she called "a good cry." Phillis, sombre and thoughtful, was pacing the room, with her hands clasped behind her head,--a favorite attitude of hers when she was in any perplexity. She stopped short as Nan regarded her with some astonishment from the threshold. "Oh, come in, Nan: it will be such a relief to talk to a sensible person. Dulce is so silly, she does nothing but cry." "I can't help it," returned Dulce, with another sob; "everything is so horrible, and Phillis will say such dreadful things." "Poor little soul!" said Nan, in a sympathetic voice, sitting down on the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce's hair; "it is very hard for her and for us all," with a pent-up sigh. "Of course it is hard," retorted Phillis, confronting them rather impatiently from the hearth-rug; "it is bitterly hard. But it is not worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying will not mend matters, and it is a sheer waste of tears. As I tell her, what we have to do now is to make the best of things, and see what is to be done under the circumstances." "Yes, indeed," repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her arm round Dulce, and drew her head against her shoulder. The action comforted Dulce, and her tears soon ceased to flow. "I am thinking about mother," went on Phillis, pondering her words slowly as she spoke; "she does look so ill and weak. I do not see how we are to leave her." Mrs. Challoner's moral helplessness and dread of responsibility were so sacred in her daughters' eyes that they rarely alluded to them except in this vague fashion. For years they had shielded and petted her, and given way to her little fads and fancies, until she had developed into a sort of gentle hypochondriac.