ba not a word, except to say that he had seen a fine
copy of one of Raphael's pictures for sale, which, if his father would
send the money, he would buy, for the dining hall at Fair Acres.

Joyce had hardly patience to finish the letter; but her mother said:

"Give the letter to me, Joyce." And then she smoothed the thin sheet of
foreign paper tenderly, and, refolding it, placed it in her large
work-box, which stood unused by her side.

Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over
her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket,
and said:

"Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless
and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I
make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools
to-morrow?"

"You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer
relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into
some interest about Melville's letter.

"You can do as you like--my day is over."

"Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It
is--it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you--and upon us
all--that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort."

"Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your
father--and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his
prime, to leave me desolate!"

"You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say;
"and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to
take up the business of the farm."

"As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it."

"Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of
people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything
he does."

Mrs. Falconer sighed.

"Well," she said, "I don't want to talk any more about it. I think if
you will get me the yarn I will go on knitting Harry's stockings."

"Oh, yes," Joyce said; "and Piers will be so pleased to hold the skeins
for you, mother."

Then she kissed her mother again and again, and whispered:

"You will come to church on Sunday, mother, won't you? It is so dull for
you, sitting here day after day."

"I can do nothing else," was the reply--"nothing else. What else should
I do? You are a dear, good child, Joyce. He always said so; he was
always right."

There is nothing harder to meet than a grief like poor