lips in a whisper of shivering dread.

"The sixty days are almost gone, and papa has not got the money! What
will he do? oh! what will he do?"

Being with him constantly in the store, Olive saw, what he struggled to
hide from those at home,--the utter despair that was mastering a patient
hope;--and she knew that as the days went so swiftly by, that to him,
the end was growing more certain. Once she saw him eagerly tear open a
letter, and after reading a few lines, drop his head on his hands, and,
unconscious of her nearness, groan despairingly. It weighed on her mind
terribly, and her great desire to be of help, faced by the fact of her
perfect inability, made her almost desperate, at times.

Beatrice spent the afternoon in fussing with her dress, and Ernestine in
watching for her mother, who was spending the day with a sick friend, so
as she was still absent, when the tea-bell rang, the meal was rather
gloomy; for the three older girls were busy with thoughts; Kat's tooth
still ached, Kittie had caught cold, and their resentment at not being
included in the invitation, being mutual, they devoted themselves
exclusively to each other, and Jean dismayed at the unusual silence, ate
her bread and milk with a pathetic air of loneliness, quite touching.

"Ernestine, won't you sing just a little something," she asked, as they
went into the sitting-room, where the fire burned low. "It's _so_
lonesome without mama, when you're all so still. Seems to me everything
has gone wrong all day, what's the matter?"

"Everybody's in the blues, it's in the air," laughed Ernestine, sitting
down to the piano, and skimming the keys. "Sit down chickie, and I'll
sing 'Three Fishers.'"

Jean curled in a chair, with a pleased smile, and Ernestine began the
plaintive song, with the firelight flitting over her face, showing that
she sang with more feeling than usual.

"For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep."

The door-bell rang just there, and made them jump, then Bea went to the
door, for though quite dark, it was not seven yet.

A man stood just outside, a stranger, and as Bea opened the door with no
light, but the fire from the sitting-room, he did not seem to know what
to say.

"Is Mrs. Dering here,--that is,--is she home?"

"No, she is not, but will you come in, perhaps I will do," answered Bea,
peering beyond him, and starting, as she caught the outline of other
figures o