“Mar,” cried Agnes, “there is a change coming in your mother. I am sure of it. She is beginning to think of things. She knows now that there is something wrong. We must be patient, my dear, and keep on the watch. It has been a long, long time coming; but I am sure she begins to feel that something is wrong.” “It is a long time coming, as you say; and it does not seem very much when it comes,” said the boy. “One only gets to understand the strangeness of it as one grows older; but never mind, I have got on very well without her hitherto, and I need not trouble myself about it, need I, now?” “I don’t like you to say so, Mar.” “I am sorry myself, but it can’t be helped,” said the boy. “I form very different ideas in myself now and then. But the philosophical thing is never to mind. It’s a little peculiar to be as I am, no one to care particularly about me, isn’t it? Generally a fellow at my age has rather too much caring for, to judge by Duke. But he’s exceptional. Oh, don’t think I’m not cared for; I am too much cared for--Uncle John is the kindest man in the world, and as for my aunt--she kills me with kindness. Yes, that’s what she does. She’s far more careful about me than about the rest. I wish sometimes that my health was of no importance, like Reggie’s. Well, that’s what she says--‘Oh, Reggie! He’s of no consequence; he has the health of a pig. But Mar!’ And then I have gruel, and my feet in hot water, and must not go out. It’s rather tiresome,” the boy said with a yawn. “I did want to go out to-day, to see all the things, how they are getting on. Did you think there was an east wind to-day?” “East wind! and what would it matter if there were--in June?” said Agnes Hill. “What a revolutionary you are!” said Mar. “But it’s a great refreshment to hear of someone who despises the east wind. I have to watch it; I can’t help myself. Do you see that weathercock, Aunt Agnes? I look at it the first thing in the morning, for I know if it turns to the east I mustn’t go out, even if the Queen were coming. It’s veering round, don’t you see? I’ve done nothing but watch it all day.” “And what does she mean by that?” cried Agnes; “what does that matter in summer, the east wind!” “Oh, my aunt means--only care and kindness--perhaps a little more; but this you must never repeat, for it sounds hard, and I don’t know whether I am right. She is dreadfully frightened lest something should happen to me in her house and she should be blamed----” “In her house--it is your house!” said Agnes, vehemently. “Oh, no; not while I am so young. Uncle John is my guardian, and lives here for me, and it is a great sacrifice to him. But, of course, while he is here, and I am under age, it is his house. I wish they would let me take my chance, though,” said Mar, “like the rest. Do you think it matters? If a fellow is going to die, he’ll die whatever you do, and in the meantime he might as well have some good of his life.”