“Oh, Eva!” she said. “If you knew how happy it has made me to win a little money, when you all need it so much, you would never talk as if the earning it could be considered unsuitable.” “You are right,” answered Eva, almost crying. “It was a thoughtless speech.” “Because you really had never considered the subject,” answered Ross, heartily ashamed of his own enthusiasm. “But all this brings us no nearer to the question in hand.” Both the sisters grew silent, and the color faded slowly from their faces. They looked at each other with yearning fondness, and, as if influenced by one feeling, the eyes of both filled with tears. “It can hardly be called a separation,” said Ross, touched with lively sympathy. “There need not be a day in which you cannot see each other.” “She must go,” faltered Ruth, stretching forth her arms. “To keep her with us would be cruel.” Eva sunk upon her knees by the couch, and buried her face in Ruthy’s bosom. “No! no!” she said. “We cannot part; not while they have need of me.” “But, remember mother, how much more you would be doing for her and James, who felt it so hard to give up school,” pleaded Ruth. “This is a poor place for you, my sister.” “But is it better for you and mother?” questioned Eva, almost indignantly, for the temptation to go was strong within her, and she hated herself for it. “But we will soon make this home pleasanter for them than it has ever been,” said Ross. “Who is that? Mother?” cried Ruth, who heard a woman’s step in the porch. “She will think with us, I am sure, Eva.” CHAPTER LVI. MRS. SMITH BRINGS PAINFUL NEWS. Eva did not reply to her sister’s question, for she had hurried to the door, and found not her mother, as she eagerly expected, but Mrs. Smith, with her bonnet awry, and her shawl trailing to the ground. The good woman’s face was flushed with crying, and a fresh rain of tears came to her eyes the moment she saw Eva. “Don’t! Don’t! Order me from the door! Don’t wither me up into nothing, just with looking in my face! It wasn’t my fault; I knew no more about it than my Jerusha Maria, poor innocent darling, that never dreamed what a cruel father she’s got. I’ll never live with Smith again—never! To go and do such a thing, without telling me! I’m not a cannibal, nor a Hottentot to stand such things!” Mrs. Smith had burst forth in this torrent of words and tears on the very doorstep. Eva entreated her to come in. Being utterly ignorant of the particular grief that possessed the good woman, she could do no more. “You’re just one degree from a heavenly angel, Eva Laurence,” continued the good woman, wiping her eyes on the corner of her shawl, as she passed into the parlor. “Smith won’t, but I’ve come to make atonement on my bended knees. Tell me what to do for them, and I’ll do it, if Jerusha Maria and I are left without a crust.” “My dear Mrs. Smith, what do you mean? Who has troubled you so?”