sweet and changeful mouth, the upper lip too short, the lower lip much too
full; little hands, little feet, little wrists. Not one indication of
great physical or great mental strength could you point out in Mercy
Philbrick; but she was rarely ill; and she had never been known to give
up a point, small or great, on which her will had been fully set. Even the
cheerfulness of which her minister, Harley Allen, had written to Stephen,
was very largely a matter of will with Mercy. She confronted grief as she
would confront an antagonist force of any sort: it was something to be
battled with, to be conquered. Fate should not worst her: come what might,
she would be the stronger of the two. When the doctor said to her,--

"Mrs. Philbrick, I fear that your mother cannot live through another
winter in this climate," Mercy looked at him for a moment with an
expression of terror. In an instant more, the expression had given place
to one of resolute and searching inquiry.

"You think, then, that she might be well in a different climate?"

"Perhaps not well, but she might live for years in a dryer, milder air.
There is as yet no actual disease in her lungs," the doctor replied.

Mercy interrupted him.

"You think she might live in comparative comfort? It would not be merely
prolonging her life as a suffering invalid?" she said; adding in an
undertone, as if to herself, "I would not subject her to that."

"Oh, yes, undoubtedly," said the doctor. "She need never die of
consumption at all, if she could breathe only inland air. She will never
be strong again, but she may live years without any especial liability to