eep."

But oh, that home left without a mother--the dear, loving, toiling,
patient, self-sacrificing mother!

"Dear old lady," were the words in which Theodore had most often thought
of her, and I find on thinking back that I have constantly spoken of her
thus, but in reality she was not old at all; her early life of toil and
privation and sorrow had whitened her hair and marked heavy lines as of
age on her face. Her quaint dress gave added strength to this
impression, and Theodore when he first met her was at that age when all
women in caps and spectacles are old, so "Grandma" she had always been
to him, but they only wrote "sixty-three" on her coffin.

They were sitting together, Theodore and Pliny, the first evening they
had spent alone since the changes had come to them. They were in their
pleasant room which must soon be vacated, for the guiding presence that
had made of them a family was wanting now. They had not been talking,
only the quietest common-places--neither of them seemed to have words
that they chose to utter. They were sitting in listless attitudes, each
occupying a great arm-chair, which they called "study-chairs." Theodore
with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and Pliny with his face
half hidden in his hands. The latter was the first to break the silence.

"Mallery, you are _such_ a wonderment to me! What is there about me that
makes you cling so? I thought it was all over during that awful time. I
don't know how you can help despising me, but you don't know how it was.
Oh, Theodore, I tried, I struggled, I _meant_ to keep my promise, and
even at such a time as that the sight of my enemy conquered me. Now,
_what_ am I to do? There is no hope for me at all. I have no trust, no
confidence in myself."

"That at least would be hopeful if it were strictly true," Theodore
answered, earnestly. "But, Pliny, it is not _quite_ true. If you utterly
distrusted yourself, _so_ utterly that you would stop trying to save
yourself alone, and accept the All-powerful Helper's aid, I should be at
rest about you forever."

Contrary to his usual custom, Pliny had no answer ready, seemed not in
the least inclined to argue, and so Theodore only dropped a little sigh
and waited. It was not despair with him during these days--his faith had
reached high ground. "Ask, and ye _shall_ receive," had come home to him
with wonderful force just lately, while he waited on his knees; he felt
that he should never let go