smelt of fish. The very sea was made ugly by
warehouses and shabby wharves. The people they met were strangers; and,
altogether, the effect of Mary's walk was to send her back more homesick
than ever for Valley Hill.

By Friday night the little parsonage was in order. Mrs. Forcythe was a
capital manager. She planned and contrived, turned and twisted and made
things comfortable in a surprising way. But she overtired herself
greatly in doing this, and on Saturday morning Mary was waked by her
father calling from below that mother was very ill, and she must come
down at once and stay with her while he went for a doctor.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mary, as she hurried on her clothes. "Now mother is
sick. It's all this hateful Redding. She never was sick when we lived in
the country."

But the hard mood melted the moment she saw her mother's pale face and
feeble smile.

"I hope I'm not going to be very ill," said Mrs. Forcythe; "probably
it's only that I have tired myself out. You'll have to be 'Mamma' for a
day or two, Mary dear. Make Papa as comfortable as you can. See that
Frank has his lunch put up for school, and don't let Peter take cold.
Oh, dear!--my head aches so hard that I can't talk. I know you'll do
your best Mary, won't you?"

Guess how Mary felt at this appeal! All her better nature came back in a
moment. She saw how wrong she had been in nursing her selfish griefs,
and letting this dear mother over-work herself. "O mother, I will,
indeed I will!" she cried, kissing the pale face; and, only waiting to
draw the blind so that the sun should not shine in, she flew
downstairs, eager to do all she could to make up for past ill-conduct.

The Doctor came. He said Mrs. Forcythe was threatened with fever, and
must be kept very quiet for several days. Mary had never in her life
worked so hard as she did that Saturday. There was breakfast, dinner,
supper to get, dishes to wash, water to heat, the fire to tend, rooms to
dust, beds to make, the baby to keep out of mischief. She was very tired
by night, but her heart felt lighter than it had for many days past. Do
you wonder at this? I can tell you the reason. Mary's troubles were
selfish troubles, and the moment she forgot herself in thinking of
somebody else, they became small and began to creep away.

"Pitty, pitty!" said little Peter, as he heard her singing over her
dish-washing. Mary caught him up and gave him a hearty kiss,--a real
Valley Hill kiss, such as she had