held it there for her while she ate. All this Ellen did with
the zeal that love gives, and though the same thing was to be
gone over every night of the year, she was never wearied. It
was a real pleasure; she had the greatest satisfaction in
seeing that the little her mother could eat was prepared for
her in the nicest possible manner; she knew her hands made it
taste better; her mother often said so.

But this evening other thoughts had driven this important
business quite out of poor Ellen's mind. Now, however, when
her eyes fell upon the little kettle, she recollected her
mother had not had her tea, and must want it very much; and
silently slipping off the sofa, she set about getting it as
usual. There was no doubt this time whether the kettle boiled
or no; it had been hissing for an hour and more, calling as
loud as it could to somebody to come and make the tea. So
Ellen made it, and then began the toast. But she began to
think, too, as she watched it, how few more times she would be
able to do so — how soon her pleasant tea makings would be
over — and the desolate feeling of separation began to come
upon her before the time. These thoughts were too much for
poor Ellen; the thick tears gathered so fast, she could not
see what she was doing; and she had no more than just turned
the slice of bread on the fork when the sickness of heart
quite overcame her; she could not go on. Toast and fork and
all dropped from her hand into the ashes; and rushing to her
mother's side, who was now lying down again, and throwing
herself upon her, she burst into another fit of sorrow — not
so violent as the former, but with a touch of hopelessness in
it which went yet more to her mother's heart. Passion in the