“It is no good, we can never manage it,” cried Cecilly, half crying, throwing on the floor, as she spoke, the book she had been studying for the last half hour. “Well, Cecilly, it is no good spoiling the book. That won’t help us,” I said, picking it up and smoothing its ruffled pages. “It is just as silly as the others,” Cecilly continued, starting up and walking quickly up and down the room. “These people did not put a majolica sink in their dining-room, or embroider their dish-cloths, but they spent fifty pounds in having water laid on to every bedroom, bought a new cooking-stove, and every other contrivance advertised for saving labour. If we had fifty pounds to spend to save ourselves trouble, we need not do without the servants. I see we shall have to give up the idea after all. Jack is right; we can never manage.” “Don’t say that,” I cried, for Cecilly had been the originator of the idea, and last evening had fought most hopefully every objection the boys had raised against our carrying out our plan of doing without servants. It was only six months ago that the first shadow had fallen on our bright happy home. Our dear father had been suddenly struck down by illness, an illness which had seemed but slight at first, but which, as the weeks went by, grew graver day by day, till there came a long, long night when we waited in silent grief for the summons to bid him our last farewell. But God in His mercy heard our broken-hearted prayers, and gave him back to us and life. His recovery was fearfully low and tedious, and no one was surprised to learn that the only hope for his recovery was for him to pass the winter abroad. It had been very difficult to find the means to take him away, but they were found. At first the change did wonders, but the improvement did not last, and in every letter we could read the anxiety mother was trying to hide from us. The day before the one of which I write the first bright report had reached us.