Rhoda lay on the bed, as she had done for the last three weeks, and turned her eyes listlessly to the door as Mrs. Worthington entered, but they brightened a little as they rested on the visitor's face. "Ah, little Rhoda!" said Mrs. Worthington, coming to the side of the bed and kissing her. "I think you remember me, don't you?" "Yes, ma'am," answered Rhoda; "I remember you very well. When we had the measles in the house, just a little while before I went away, you took me over to your house, and let me stay two or three days. I remember how we played under the big tree in the back yard—Cathy and Rosy and I—and how the boys let out their rabbits. I suppose Cathy and Rosy are grown-up young ladies now." And then, catching Mrs. Lambert's warning glance, she faltered, and said, "Oh, I am so sorry!" "Never mind, dear; you have not hurt me at all. I like to hear you talk about them," said Mrs. Worthington. "Yes, they are all gone—Cathy and Rosy and the boys. We have a lonely house now, Rhoda. Poor Miss Smith is not troubled by the noise in our back yard any more." "I remember how she came out and scolded us when we were playing 'king's land,'" said Rhoda; "and then, when Cathy cried, she went in and brought out a great plate of little almond cakes for us. Is she alive yet?" "Oh yes; she is just the same as ever. She gave me a great deal of efficient help in John's last illness." "Your house must seem very lonely," said Mrs. Lambert. "Yes, it does indeed," said Mrs. Worthington, sadly. "It sometimes seems as if I could not go on living there, especially as Mr. Worthington has to be away so much. But I must keep a home for him, you know," said the bright little woman, brushing away the drops from her eyelids. "When it gets so that I can't bear it any longer, I just put on my bonnet and run away up to the hospital or over here and stay all the morning, and I always go home feeling cheerful again." "Well, I will leave you with Rhoda a while," said Mrs. Lambert. "I have my hands full, now that Miss Brown is so helpless, though the old lady makes me very little work, considering—not half so much as some who are better able to wait on themselves. The other night I had just laid down, after being on my feet till nearly one o'clock, when, just as I was dropping off to sleep, Miss Martin screamed out to me from the top of the house that she was dying and wanted a cup of tea directly. You might have heard her down to the college, I am sure." Rhoda laughed—a faint little ghost of a laugh: "And was she?" "Bless you, no, child—not near so much like dying as you were. I remembered how she had eaten stewed peaches at the supper-table, and I wasn't at all scared. So I just mixed some essence of ginger and took it up to her, and she was asleep again in half an hour." "Was I really in any danger of dying?" asked Rhoda. "Why didn't you tell me?"