d at her
mother's lack of the qualities she liked best. She had spent hours in
dreaming of a phantom mother sweet, graceful and refined, who loved all
delightful things, who was stirred by music and poetry, who could
receive guests with a gracious hospitality in the pretty home which
should be simple as befitted moderate means. The sympathy between them
would be perfect. They would linger over well-loved poets, they would
discuss their brave heroes and favorite heroines. How many times she had
fallen asleep with this dear mother's hand clasped in hers!

But here had been the hard working mother instead. Yes, she had tried to
help. Nearly all the summer vacation she had sewed steadily, but she had
never given the real love. It was as if neither truly understood the
other's language.

"All the rest of her life I will try," was her last conscious thought.

Mrs. Barrington found them both asleep. She studied the girl's face, the
finely cut features, the wide eyelids with their bronze fringe, the
beautifully curved lips. It _was_ an aristocratic face. She hardly dared
think there _was_ a resemblance, and yet it explained what had puzzled
her at times. "Lilian," she said softly. "Lilian, child, it is time you
were in bed."

The girl roused suddenly with a startled look. Then she caught the hand
and pressed a fervent kiss upon it.

"You are all so kind," she murmured. "I can never repay you
sufficiently."

"Do not think of that, I am going to sit here awhile with your mother
and you must try and get some sleep."

"Mother is better I think," hesitatingly. "She is stronger, and now she
is sleeping peacefully."

She slept on with only a rather heavy breathing. At one Mrs. Dane came
to relieve her. Lilian was on the alert quite early and her mother asked
for some breakfast.

At ten the doctor came. "I feel so much stronger," the invalid said,
"but I can't move my limbs. There doesn't seem any life in them."

"It was quite a severe stroke."

"And if I should have another?"

"We won't think of that just now. You must eat what you can of
nourishing food."

Mrs. Boyd glanced up at the doctor with beseeching eyes--

"It is best that I shouldn't live--"

"For your daughter's sake." Dr. Kendricks felt almost ashamed of the
platitude. A helpless burden on a young girl, a poor, weak woman.

"It _is_ for her sake. She has found a good friend in Mrs. Barrington,
and I can do no more. I did what I thought best then, but I