became more than ever essential to the maintenance of the household,
while the younger widow considered herself a martyr to the most sordid,
the most unnecessary stinginess.

A tapping at the door and suppressed childish laughter called Katherine
from her thoughts. She rose and opened the door quickly and softly.

"Hush, Cecil! be quiet, Charlie! poor grannie is asleep. Come with me
downstairs; I will read to you if you like."

"Oh yes, do," said Charlie.

"I don't care for reading," cried Cecil. "Can't you play bears?"

"It makes too much noise. I will play it to-morrow if grandmamma is
better. Shall I tell you a story?"

"No," said Cecil; "_I_ will tell _you_ one."

"Very well. I shall be delighted to hear it."

"I would rather have you read, auntie," said the little one.

"Never mind, Charlie; I will read to you after."

"Shall we sit in the garden? We have made it quite clean and tidy."

"No, dear; grannie would hear us there. Come into the dining-room."

Established there, the boys one on each side of her, Katherine listened