s and a flock of photographs in the
room. What Mrs. Louder named "a throw" decorated each framed picture and
each chair. The largest arm-chair was drawn up to a table covered with
books and magazines: in the chair sat Mrs. Louder, reading.

At Tilly's entrance she started and turned her head, and then one could
see that the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Now, MOTHER!" exploded Tilly. Kicking the door open, she marched into
the bed-chamber. An indignant sweep of one arm sent the miscellany of
gifts into a rocking-chair; an indignant curve of the other landed the
baby on the bed. Tilly turned on her mother. "Now, mother, what did
you promise--HUSH! will you?" (The latter part of the sentence a fierce
"ASIDE" to the infant on the bed.) In a second Mrs. Louder's arms were
encircling him, and she was soothing him on her broad shoulder, where I
know not how many babies have found comfort.

Jane Louder was a tall woman--tall and portly. She had a massive repose
about her, a kind of soft dignity; and a stranger would not guess how
tender was her heart. Deprecatingly she looked up at her only child,
standing in judgment over her. Her eyes were fine still, though they had
sparkled and wept for more than half a century. They were not gray, like
Tilly's, but a deep violet, with black eyelashes and eyebrows. Black,
once, had been the hair under the widow's cap, now streaked with
silver; but Jane Louder's skin was fresh and daintily tinted like her
daughter's, for all its fine wrinkles. Her voice when she spoke was
mellow and slow, with a nervous vibration of apology. "Never mind,
dear," she said, "I was just reading 'bout the Russians."

"I KNEW it! You promised me you wouldn't cry about the Russians any
more."

"I know, Tilly, but Alma Brown lent this to me, herself. There's a
beautiful article in it about 'The Horrors of Hunger.' It would make
your heart ache! I wish you would read it, Tilly."

"No, thank you. I don't care to have my heart ache. I'm not going to
read any more horrors about the Russians, or hear them either, if I can
help it. I have to write Mr. Lossing's letters about them, and that's
enough. I've given all I can afford, and you've given more than you can
afford; and I helped get up the subscription at the shops. I've done all
I could; and now I ain't going to have my feelings harrowed up any more,
when it won't do me nor the Russians a mite of good."

"But I cayn't HELP it, Tilly. I cayn't take an