Mrs. Bertram turned and walked up the steps. She entered the wide hall
which was lit by a ghostly, and not too carefully-trimmed, paraffin
lamp. Catherine followed her. They went into the drawing-room. Here also
a paraffin lamp gave an uncertain light; very feeble, yellow, and
uncertain it was, but even by it Catherine could catch a glimpse of her
mother's face. It was drawn and white, it was not only changed from the
prosperous, handsome face which the girl had last looked at, but it had
lost its likeness to the haughty, the proud, the satisfied Mrs. Bertram
of Catherine's knowledge. Its expression now betokened a kind of inward
scare or fright.

"Mother, you have something to worry you," said Kate, "I see that by
your face. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Sit down, mother. What can I do
for you?"

"Nothing, my dear, except to be an attentive daughter--attentive and
affectionate and obedient. Sometimes, Catherine, you are not that."

"Oh, never mind now, when you are in trouble, I'd do anything in the
world for you when you are in trouble. You know that."

Mrs. Bertram had seated herself. Catherine knelt now, and took one of
her mother's hands between her own. Insensibly the cold hand was
comforted by the warm steadfast clasp.

"You are a good child, Kate," said her mother in an unwonted and gentle
voice. "You are full of whims and fancies; but when you like you can be
a great support to one. Do you remember long ago when your father died
how only little Kitty's hand could cure mother's headaches?"