Her mother hesitated for a moment; then kissed her once, twice; put both arms about her neck; and turned her face to the wall without a word. “Mamma is tired, dear,” I said; “come away.” She was lying quite still when I had done what was to be done for the child, and had come back. The room was nearly dark. I sat down on my cricket by her sofa. “Shall Phœbe light the lamp?” “Not just yet.” “Can’t you drink a cup of tea if I bring it?” “Not just yet.” “Did you find the sack-trimming?” I ventured, after a pause. “I believe so,--yes.” She drew a little package from her pocket, held it a moment, then let it roll to the floor forgotten. When I picked it up, the soft, tissue-paper wrapper was wet and hot with tears. “Mary?” “Yes.” “I never thought of the little trimming till the last minute. I had another errand.” I waited. “I thought at first I would not tell you just yet. But I suppose the time has come; it will be no more easy to put it off. I have been to Worcester all these times to see a doctor.” I bent my head in the dark, and listened for the rest. “He has his reputation; they said he could help me if anybody could. He thought at first he could. But to-day--Mary, see here.” She walked feebly towards the window, where a faint, gray light struggled in, and opened the bosom of her dress.... There was silence between us for a long while after that; she went back to the sofa, and I took her hand and bowed my face over it, and so we sat. The leaves rustled out of doors. Faith, up stairs, was singing herself to sleep with a droning sound. “He talked of risking an operation,” she said, at length, “but decided to-day that it was quite useless. I suppose I must give up and be sick now; I am feeling the reaction from having kept up so long. He thinks I shall not suffer a very great deal. He thinks he can relieve me, and that it may be soon over.” “There is no chance?” “No chance.” I took both of her hands, and cried out, I believe, as I did that first night when she spoke to me of Roy,--“Auntie, Auntie, Auntie!” and tried to think what I was doing, but only cried out the more. “Why, Mary!” she said,--“why, Mary!” and again, as before, she passed her soft hand to and fro across my hair, till by and by I began to think, as I had thought before, that I could bear anything which God who loved us all--who _surely_ loved us all--should send. So then, after I had grown still, she began to tell me about it in her quiet voice, and the leaves rustled, and Faith had sung herself to sleep, and I listened wondering. For there was no pain in the quiet voice,--no pain, nor tone of fear. Indeed, it seemed to me that I detected, through its subdued sadness, a secret, suppressed buoyancy of satisfaction, with which something struggled. “And you?” I asked, turning quickly upon her. “I should thank God with all my heart, Mary, if it were not for Faith and you. But it _is_ for Faith and you. That’s all.”