Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. “I know it's hard, dear child. You've only been engaged six months--and it looks as if it might be some years before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone.” “I should say he had!” Diantha burst forth. “Five helpless women!--or three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.” “They weren't brought up that way,” said Mrs. Bell. “Their mother don't approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman--and so does Ross--and so do I,” she added rather faintly. Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. “I don't agree with Mrs. Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother,” she said, “What I've got to tell you is this--I'm going away from home. To work.” Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes. “Why Diantha!” she said. “Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your Mother!” Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close--close. “It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's not because I don't love Ross either:--it's because I _do._ I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him--to help carry that awful load--and I'm going--to--do--it!” She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair. “I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren't they beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother! What's the matter? You're crying!” “Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way. “What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters. “Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!” She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding, “Come--what's the trouble?” “You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided to leave home, that's all.” “To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To leave home!--And Mother!” “Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother's eyes. “Well, why not? You left home--and Mother--before you were eighteen.”