She looked at me in a speechless way, and then there was a long silence, during which she shook her head a number of times. At last she inquired: "Did you make the bread we had on the table to-night?" "No, I do not know how to make bread," I said, smiling at her look of horror. "Not know how to make bread?" she cried. The very spirit of mischief got into me, and made me ask: "Why, can you?" Now I know there is but one other question I could have asked her, less insulting than this, and that is: "Do you know the Ten Commandments?" A spinster fresh from a farm not know how make bread, to be sure! But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that I had yielded to myself so far as to forget the courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just home from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the room, seized her hand, and said, eagerly: "Do forgive me! It slipped out before I thought!" She looked at me in blank amazement, unconscious that there was anything to forgive. "How you startled me!" she said. "I thought you had suddenly gone crazy." I went back to my seat crestfallen enough. All this time Ernest's father had sat grim and grave in his corner, without a word. But now he spoke. "At what hour does my son have family worship? I should like to retire. I feel very weary." Now family worship at night consists in our kneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing before going to bed, and in our own room. The awful thought of changing this sweet, informal habit into a formal one made me reply quickly: "Oh, Ernest is very irregular about it. He is often out in the evening, and sometimes we are quite late. I hope you never will feel obliged to wait for him." "I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it costs," was the answer. Oh, how I wished they would go to bed! It was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and restless. When Ernest is out late I usually lie on the sofa and wait for him, and so am bright and fresh when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and there was no knowing for how long. I poked at the fire and knocked down the shovel and tongs, now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned forward, and then I listened for his step. At last he came. "What, are you not all gone to bed?" he asked. As if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen him a moment since his return! I explained why we waited, and then we had prayer and escorted our guests to their rooms. When we got back to the parlor I was thankful to rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what little he had to tell about his mother's last hours. "You must love me more than ever, now," he said, "for I have lost my best friend." "Yes," I said, "I will." As if that were possible! All the time we were talking I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, or her father, or both together, had changed the positions of article of furniture in the room making it look a fright. Chapter 11 XI. MARCH 10.