"One of them is lame, is she?" and as he spoke, the old man's voice softened, as it had done when he called to Jean. "Yes, sir, my little one, lame from babyhood." Mr. Congreve resorted to his handkerchief again, and waved its scarlet folds back and forth in much agitation for a few seconds, then, as he put it back in its capacious pocket, and sniffed once or twice, as if in defiance to some internal commotion, Mrs. Dering remembered that he had once had a little lame girl, who died before reaching womanhood. He was regarding her intently, and now as she lifted her eyes, softened with this sudden remembrance, he bounced out of his chair, and set his cane down sharply on the hearth. "Elizabeth Dering, you're not the woman I thought you were. You're not like your father, and I'm glad of that. I came here to offer you help, because I know for a certainty that Robert was in trouble, and I see that you are no more pleased to see me, than I was at the prospect of seeing you. That I have been angry with my nephew for many years, you know well enough, but there's no use denying that his sudden death has touched me, and I want to do something for his family. To-night you are in no condition to talk, no more am I; so if you will show me my room I will go to it immediately." Mrs. Dering arose also, with relief plainly visible in her face, and after finding that he had taken an early supper before leaving the city, excused herself to arrange for his comfort during the night. Several hours later, when the household had forgotten its grief in slumber, and nothing disturbed the stillness of the night, but an occasional frog, and the lonesome sighing of the wind through the bare trees, two persons found it extremely difficult to sleep. In Mrs. Dering's room the fire lay in dying embers on the hearth, and in a low chair before it, sat the pale mother and widow, with no need now to hide her grief, lest other hearts were made sad, for no one was near but Jean, and she slept soundly, with sorrow lost in the oblivion of dreams. So feeling for the first time, the liberty of tears, that poor, aching heart broke its stern control, and burying her face, the sorrowing woman wept, praying, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, that they might not be shed in bitterness or rebellion, and that her heart, through all its pain, might still feel and know, "what is, is best." When the violence of her grief had expended itself, and she could lift her face to view calmly her loss and new responsibilities, the unvoiced prayer of her heart was: "O God, help me; I cannot work alone; let me know what to do; help me to think and act aright, and strengthen my trembling faith, that whatever may come to me, I can say: 'God knows it is for the best.'" Even as she prayed, help came to her, for Olive could not sleep, and feeling assured that her mother was awake, had come noiselessly in, and now stood by her. "Mama, I cannot sleep either; let me stay with you."