"Yes, we'll get plenty o' jeely too," she replied, drying the remaining
tears from her eyes, and hugging him again to her breast.

"Oh, my," he said, with a deep sigh. "I wish my father was better!" and
the little lips were moistened by his tongue, as if in anticipation of
the coming feast.

Another silence; and then came the query--"What way do we not get plenty
o' pieces when my daddy's no' working? Does folk no' get them then?"

"No, Robin," she answered, "but dinna fash your wee noddle with that.
You'll find out all about it when you get big. Shut your eyes and
mother'll sing, an' you'll go to sleep." And he snuggled in and shut his
eyes, while Mrs. Sinclair gathered him softly to her breast and began to
croon an old ballad.

As she sang it seemed to the boy that there were no such things as
"jelly-pieces" to bother about. He liked his mother to sing to him, for
he seemed to get rolled up in her soft, warm voice, and become restful
and happy. Gradually the low crooning song grew fainter in his ears, the
flicker of the fire danced further and further away, until long streaks
of golden thready light seemed to reach out, straight from his eyes to
the fireplace, and all the comfort that it was possible to have flowed
through his soul, and at last he slept. Mrs. Sinclair placed him beside
his brothers and sisters in the bed and went back to finish her
knitting. The night was far gone before she accomplished her task, and
she stood and surveyed her humble home with weariness in her heart.

Through the dim smoke which hung like a blue cloud along the roof, and