She dropped her head on her folded arms resting on the table. The widow's cap slipped aside, and a veil of bright, brown, waving hair fell over her bowed face. She had been forced to restrain her tears all day. There were the children to be thought of. There were Theodore's cold, clear questions and suggestions to be answered. But now, in solitude, her tears gushed out. She wept with long, deep-drawn sobs. The words of the Litany seemed to be repeated over and over again, as by a voice whispering in her ear, "The fatherless children, and widows, and all who are desolate and oppressed." She rocked herself from side to side, and moaned out, "Oh, come back to us! Come back, Martin--Martin!" A hand was gently laid on her shoulder. With a great start she raised her head, and saw her eldest boy standing by her side. He was a handsome boy, very like his father. But now his naturally ruddy face was pale, and his eyes had a depth of yearning tenderness in them which went to his mother's heart. "Don't cry so, mother dear!" he said. "Father couldn't bear to see it, if he knew." She clasped the boy in her arms; and, although she still wept, her sobs were less convulsive, and she gradually grew calmer. Martin stood beside her very quietly, occasionally stroking back the pretty soft hair which strayed over her face, and was damp with tears. Presently Mrs. Bransby said, "I thought you were in bed, Martin. How silently you came downstairs!" "I took off my shoes, mother," he answered, showing his feet. "I didn't want to disturb the others. The children are asleep, and Phoebe is snoring away." Phoebe was their one servant, a housemaid from their Oldchester home--who had volunteered to remain with them and follow their fortunes. "Poor Phoebe! I dare say she is tired," said Mrs. Bransby. "I should think she _was_ rather. She has been working like a brick all day," returned Martin. There was a little silence, during which Mrs. Bransby dried her eyes, put up her dishevelled hair, and replaced her cap. "Ought you not to go to bed, my boy?" she said, looking wistfully at him. "I want to stay and talk to you quietly a little, mother." Mrs. Bransby hesitated. "I should dearly like you to stay awhile, Martin," she answered; "but I'm afraid it would not be right. You look pale and worn out. You and I must help each other now to do what is right;--and what--what _he_ would have wished," she added with quivering lips. "Yes, mother," answered the boy eagerly. "That's just what I want; and I know he would have wished me to spare you all the bother I can. So now just listen, mother; indeed, indeed I couldn't sleep if I went to bed now--and it's far wearier work to lie awake than to sit up and talk. Look here, mother; Theodore has offered to send me to school, hasn't he?" "Yes, Martin. I am very thankful for that. I don't see how I could have afforded it."