boy tried to be patient, thinking that a
few weeks of rest would repair the overwork of several years.

He was forbidden to look at a book, and as that was the one thing he
most delighted in, it was a terrible affliction to the Worm. Everyone
was very ready to read to him, and at first the lads contended for this
honour. But as week after week went by, and Mac was still condemned to
idleness and a darkened room, their zeal abated, and one after the other
fell off. It was hard for the active fellows, right in the midst of
their vacation; and nobody blamed them when they contented themselves
with brief calls, running of errands, and warm expressions of sympathy.

The elders did their best, but Uncle Mac was a busy man, Aunt Jane's
reading was of a funereal sort, impossible to listen to long, and the
other aunties were all absorbed in their own cares, though they supplied
the boy with every delicacy they could invent.

Uncle Alec was a host in himself, but he could not give all his time to
the invalid; and if it had not been for Rose, the afflicted Worm
would have fared ill. Her pleasant voice suited him, her patience was
unfailing, her time of no apparent value, and her eager good-will was
very comforting.

The womanly power of self-devotion was strong in the child, and she
remained faithfully at her post when all the rest dropped away. Hour
after hour she sat in the dusky room, with one ray of light on her book,
reading to the boy, who lay with shaded eyes silently enjoying the only
pleasure that lightened the weary days. Sometimes he was peevish and
hard to please, sometimes he growled because his reader could not manage
the dry books he wished to hear, and sometimes he was so despondent that
her heart ached to see him. Through all these trials Rose persevered,
using all her little arts to please him. When he fretted, she was
patient; when he growled, she ploughed bravely through the hard pages
not dry to her in one sense, for quiet tears dropped on them now and
then; and when Mac fell into a despairing mood, she comforted him with
every hopeful word she dared to offer.

He said little, but she knew he was grateful, for she suited him better
than anyone else. If she was late, he was impatient; when she had to go,
he seemed forlorn; and when the tired head ached worst, she could always
soothe him to sleep, crooning the old songs her father used to love.

"I don't know what I should do without that child," Aunt Jane