htened, my little brass bed rattled under me. I
wonder she did not hear it. But she heard nothing; and after awhile she
was so still I fell asleep. But I woke again. Something hot had fallen
on my cheek. I put up my hand to brush it away and did not know even
when I felt my fingers wet that it was a tear from my sister-mother's
eye.

For she was kneeling then; kneeling close beside me and her arm was over
my small body; and the bed was shaking again but not this time with my
tremors only. And I was sorry and cried too until I dropped off to sleep
again with her arm still passionately embracing me.

In the morning, she was gone.

It must have been that very afternoon that Father came in where Arthur
and I were trying to play,--trying, but not quite succeeding, for I had
been telling Arthur, for whom I had a great respect in those days, what
had happened the night before, and we had been wondering in our childish
way if there would be a wedding after all, and a church full of people,
and flowers, and kissing, and lots of good things to eat, and Arthur had
said No, it was too expensive; that that was why Father was so angry;
and comforted by the assertion, I was taking up my doll again, when the
door opened and Father stepped in.

It was a great event--any visit from him to the nursery--and we both
dropped our toys and stood staring, not knowing whether he was going
to be nice and kind as he sometimes was, or scold us as I had heard him
scold our beautiful sister.

Arthur showed at once what he thought, for without the least hesitation
he took the one step which placed him in front of me, where he stood
waiting with his two little fists hanging straight at his sides but
manfully clenched in full readiness for attack. That this display of
pigmy chivalry was not quite without its warrant is evident to me now,
for Father did not look like himself or act like himself any more than
he had the night before.

However, we had no cause for fear. Having no suspicion of my having been
awake during his terrible interview with Theresa, he saw only two lonely
and forsaken children, interrupted in their play.

Can I remember what he said to us? Not exactly, though Arthur and I
often went over it choked whispers in some secret nook of the dreary old
house; but his meaning--that we took in well enough. Theresa had left
us. She would never come back. We were not to look out of the window for
her, or run to the door when the bell ran