A long oaken settle runs under the deep window of the "house" or living room. The window ledge is full of pots of geranium, fuchsia, musk and rose that turn their petals to bathe in the glorious sunshine that streams with tempered warmth through the thick glazing of the long low window. Poor Lucy lies upon the couch, her cheeks so hollow, her skin so transparent, her brown soft eyes so unnaturally large and her look of patient suffering, and of the resignation of abandoned hope so heart-rending when it is stamped on the face of youth. But the large eyes brighten as Dorothy comes to the couch, and her thin hand, so white and bloodless, rests in loving, lingering caress upon Dorothy's glossy tresses as she stoops over the invalid and leaves a kiss upon the pallid lips. "Better to-day, I hope, Lucy." And Lucy, with a suspicious catch in her voice, says: "Oh! Yes, better to-day, Miss Dorothy, almost well." Alas! There will be no well for Lucy till that best of all days shall dawn for her, where sickness and suffering enter not, and tears forget to flow. "See what Aunt Martha has sent you," said Dorothy presently,--may heaven forgive the fib,--"no, not the flowers. I gathered them all myself because I know just what you like best, and now all the afternoon, when I'm gone, you know, you must just do nothing but arrange them in that big glass on the drawers there. And this jam is for you, too, and the calves'-foot jelly to make you strong, you know, and the tea is for you, Mrs. Garside, when you've been washing and feel just like sinking through the ground, as I've heard you say you do." "And thank the missus kindly, Miss Dorothy, my respects; but whativver's this?" and Mrs. Garside extracted the bread and meat. "Oh! I'd forgotten them. These are for Ben." "Eh! But aw'm feart they'll nivver keep till next Sunday i' this welterin' weather. To be sure aw might rub 'em wi' salt, but Ben do want such a power o' ale a'ter salt meat. But we'll see, we'll see. Eh! Miss Dorothy, but it's yo' that thinks o' ivverybody an' thof yo' say it's yor aunt, it's well aw know--but least said, sooinest mended. But sit yo dahn an' aw'll dust that cheer i' hauf a tick-tack--it's fair cappin wheer all th' muck comes fro' this warm weather, fit to fry yo' like a' rasher o' bacon; sit yo' dahn, do, an' throw yo'r hat off an' yo'll read ith Book a bit; not 'at aw held so much religion but Lucy theer likes it an' it's cheap, that's one gooid thing or th' poor folk 'ud get little enew on it." Mrs. Garside, who, it will be observed, did not allow her power of speech to rust for want of use, paused to draw breath for another effort. "What shall I read, Lucy?" "Oh! Just that story about Jesus at the pool of Bethesda. How I wish I could have been there." Mrs. Garside composed herself to listen, putting on that look of impenetrable stolidity and unreceptiveness that a good many people seem to think most appropriate for a Scripture-reading.