The elder girl made no answer, but only stooped down and smilingly lifted the child and kitten on her lap--she was very small and light for her age--whereupon Fluff left off sighing, and rubbed her curly head against her sister's shoulder with a contented air. The sisters were certainly very unlike, Fluff being very small and dark, while Fern was tall and fair; without being exactly gifted with her mother's beauty, she had a charming face, soft gray eyes, and hair of that golden-brown that one sees so often in English girls. There were few people who did not think Fern Trafford decidedly pretty; her features were not exactly regular, but her coloring was lovely, and there was a joyousness and brightness about her that attracted old and young; every one loved Fern, and spoke well of her, she was so simple, so unselfish, so altogether charming, as they said. Fern never complained of the narrowness of her life, never fretted because their poverty excluded her from the pleasures girls of her age generally enjoyed. From her childhood she had known no other life. There were times when she remembered that she had gone to bed hungry, times when her mother's face looked pinched and miserable--when her father was dying, and they thought Baby Florence would die too. Somehow Fern never cared to think of those days. Fern was devoted to her mother, she clave to her with innocent love and loyalty. Percy's defection had been the bitterest trouble of her life. The girl nearly broke her heart when Percy left them. She grew thin and pale and large-eyed, as girls will when they are fretting and growing at the same time. Nea's motherly heart was touched with compassion for her child. She wished, if possible, to suffer alone; if it were in her power she would prevent the faintest shadow touching that bright young life. So she spoke to her in her calm, sensible way, for Nea was always gentle with her children, and Fern was very dear to her--she had her father's eyes, and Maurice's pure upright nature seemed transmitted to his young daughter. "Fern," she said, one evening when they were sitting together in the twilight, "you must not add to my burdens; it makes me still more unhappy to see you fretting; I miss my little daughter's brightness that used to be such a comfort to me." "Am I a comfort to you, mother?" asked Fern, wistfully, and something in those earnest gray eyes thrilled the widow's heart with fresh pangs of memory. "You are my one bit of sunshine," she answered, fondly, taking the girl's face between her hands and kissing it almost passionately. "Keep bright for your poor mother's sake, Fern."