d say so. Mother, darling, I cannot listen to this
kind of talk."

"All right, my dear, I will say no more. It sometimes happens so, Effie.
Lives we think of no account are spared--spared on indefinitely. The one
life on which so many others hang is taken."

"Mother, I do not understand you."

"I understand myself," said Mrs. Staunton. "I know what I fear. Nay, I
do not fear it--I rise up with strength to meet it. You will see, Effie,
dear, that your mother is no coward in any real danger."

"You are a dear," said Effie. "You are the best and most unselfish
mother in the world. I feel ashamed of myself when I see how bravely you
struggle against the weakness and the anxiety which must be yours, more
or less, always. But now, mother, dear, you will not look trouble in
the face before it comes--you will not meet it halfway. If you are
really better, come out into the garden, and we will take a turn before
dinner."

"Very well, my dear."

"I want to show you the sweet-peas that have come up in the south
border," continued Effie. "Come, let us talk of pleasant things, and be
cheerful when father comes home."

"Oh, I will be perfectly cheerful," said Mrs. Staunton.

She went into the good-sized garden at the back of the little cottage,
and began with nervous, energetic fingers to pick some flowers, and to
arrange them in a big nosegay.

"We will put these in the center of the supper-table," she said. "I
should like to have everything as bright and cheerful as possible for
your father to-night."

"Yes, that's capital," said Effie.

"We ought to have something particularly good for him to eat, Effie."

"But, mother, he said he wasn't hungry. You remember how he complained
of having so many meals at The Grange."

"Yes, yes, he always was a most abstemious man; but I know what he never
can resist, and that is cold raspberry tart and cream. There are plenty
of raspberries ripe in the plantation--I will gather some, and I'll make
the pastry for the tart myself."

"Very well, mother; but is it well for you to fag yourself picking those
raspberries, and then making the tart?"

"I want to make it--I should love to make it. I used to be famed for my
pastry. My mother used to say, 'You have a light hand for pastry,
Mary.' I remember so well when I made my first tart. I was just
fifteen--it was my fifteenth birthday. Mother showed me how to do it;
and I remember how the water ran all over the pastry-board. Afterward I