“I have them trained so that they could get along without me for a year,” answered Susan. “Brother Frank is as handy about the kitchen as a woman, and he is not at work, now. Besides, I shan’t be away all the time; I shall run back and forth, enough to have my fingers in both pies. And speaking of pie, Barbara, here is a cherry one that I had standing idle in my pantry; I felt sure that you hadn’t made any dessert, yet.” Barbara took the plate unsteadily. The two girls seemed to have changed natures, and something of Susan’s former stiffness had fallen upon Barbara. Of the two, Susan was far more at ease. “But I can’t take favors from you,—now,” said Barbara, awkwardly, “after what—” “Look here, Barbara Grafton,” answered Susan. “You’ve always been doing favors for me,—all your life,—favors that I couldn’t return. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, but that I didn’t know how. You could always _do_ things,—write, and draw, and sing, and entertain, and teach,—and I’ve reaped the benefit. Don’t you suppose I’ve ever wished that I could return the favors? Now there’s only one thing in all this world that I can do for you, and that is cook. Do you mean to say that you’re not going to let me do it?” Over the little brown pie the two girls clasped hands. “Where do you keep your potatoes?” said Susan. “It’s so late that I’ll have to boil them.” * * * * * Somehow the long hours of the day dragged by, and ten o’clock at night found Barbara in her room. “Go to bed, now,” her father had said. “David’s stupor will last all night, and I want you to be ready for to-morrow, when we shall need you. Miss Graves can take care of him better than either of us, just now. Our turn will come later.” It was hard to stay in the sick-room, where the deathly silence was broken only by the little invalid’s heavy breathing and the swish of Miss Graves’s stiffly starched petticoats; harder still to go away, beyond these sounds. Barbara went reluctantly, dreading the long night when hands must lie idle, and feet still. Jack, too, had decided to “turn in early,” and the house seemed very silent without the usual uproar of the children’s bedtime. She had just fallen into an uneasy sleep, when she was roused by a step upon the stair. In a moment she was wide awake. Was it her father with bad news, or Miss Graves in search of something? By the familiar squeak Barbara knew that the top stair had been reached. The step sounded in the hallway, and the girl sat up in bed as her door was pushed open and a shadowy little figure entered the room. “Cecilia Grafton!” exclaimed Barbara. Gassy tiptoed toward the bed. “How’s David?” she demanded, in a whisper. “How on earth did you get here?” “Walked. How’s David?” “Just about the same. Father says he is not suffering any pain. Did you come alone at this time of night?”