Martha sat bolt upright for a moment (it seems to me that it is very irritating to her that all opposition has ceased concerning her venture, excitement died away, and that we all treat the matter as nothing unusual); then she suddenly relaxed, saying irrelevantly, “Bairns were easier raised when I was a gell, Mrs. Evan, else my sister Bell, the mother of eleven living and three not complete, wouldn’t be now turning sixty-three and mistress of the Blue Bell out Cheltenham way. “Of course, some do give more trouble than others; likewise Timothy’s niece, Jane Fergus, Effie’s sister, has only six, and yet is always droopy. Timothy’s wanting to send her money presents constant to help along, but its naught but bad management, say I. She couldn’t manage three, so what sense of six?” “Perhaps she dreads race suicide as you do,” I said, and was sorry the minute after, poor Martha looked so weary, and the concertina had ceased to chirp and had swung into “John Anderson,” which either by chance or diabolic intent on the part of the cook, changed in turn into “Home, Sweet Home.” _The 28th._ To-day I invited Martha to take a drive, as she wished to buy the twins a carriage; at the same time I sent Effie up to tend them. I don’t know what there is about those children, but strong and healthy as they are, they do not seem young, but like the changelings in fairy stories. There is usually something attractive about youngsters, and I’ve seen even the most adorable little darkies, but to this rule Albert and Victoria are certainly exceptions. As we neared Bridgeton I said, for the sake of breaking the silence, “Will you buy a go-cart or a little coach? The go-cart is cool for this season, but of course the coach will be more useful this winter.” “This winter? Some of us may be gone before winter, Mrs. Evan, and no disrespect intended.” “Why, Martha, are you feeling ill?” I cried, declining to be included in the gloomy prediction. “I’m not to say well, Mrs. Evan.” “Where is it and what? Rheumatism?” “Not so friendly as rheumatism, Mrs. Evan; it’s fulness and emptiness in spots, the one being in the chest and the other of the head. My mother had it in the other way, the head full, and died of a stroke.” “If you feel ill, we will leave Bridgeton and shopping alone and go for a sniff of the sea,” I said, turning shoreward; “the old toy cart of the boys will serve for the present;” and Martha made no sign of protest. _August 30._ Yesterday, Martha’s sense of the duties of citizenship had a chance to exhibit itself and hear all the praise that her heart could desire. Dressed in her best, and the twins wearing new white dresses and white hats with a pink and blue bow respectively, she took them to the Sunday-school picnic given by Effie’s church, over which a minister of the Severely Protestant type presided. Timothy did _not_ go, be it said!