The girl rose from her chair and stood looking down at her mother. The sudden outburst, so unusual in one so self-restrained, the unmistakable suffering in the tones of her voice, thrilled and alarmed her. Her first impulse was to throw her arms about her mother's neck and weep with her. This had been her usual custom when the load seemed too heavy for her mother to bear. Then the more practical side of her nature asserted itself. It was strength, not sympathy, she wanted. Slipping her hand under her mother's arm, she raised her to her feet, and in a firm, decided voice, quite as a hospital nurse would speak to a restless patient, she said:
"You'd better not sit up any longer, Mother dear. Come, I'll help put you to bed."
There was no resistance. Whatever suddenly aroused memory had stirred the outburst, the paroxysm was over now.
"Well, maybe I am tired, child," was all she said, and the two left the room.
"Poor, dear old Mother! Poor, tired old Mother!" the girl