an indignant curve of the other landed the baby on the bed.
Tilly turned on her mother. "Now, mother, what did you promise--
HUSH! will you?" (The latter part of the sentence a fierce "ASIDE"
to the infant on the bed.) In a second Mrs. Louder's arms were
encircling him, and she was soothing him on her broad shoulder,
where I know not how many babies have found comfort.

Jane Louder was a tall woman--tall and portly.
She had a massive repose about her, a kind of soft dignity;
and a stranger would not guess how tender was her heart.
Deprecatingly she looked up at her only child, standing in judgment
over her. Her eyes were fine still, though they had sparkled
and wept for more than half a century. They were not gray,
like Tilly's, but a deep violet, with black eyelashes and eyebrows.
Black, once, had been the hair under the widow's cap,
now streaked with silver; but Jane Louder's skin was fresh and
daintily tinted like her daughter's, for all its fine wrinkles.
Her voice when she spoke was mellow and slow, with a nervous
vibration of apology. "Never mind, dear," she said, "I was
just reading 'bout the Russians."

"I KNEW it! You promised me you wouldn't cry about the
Russians any more."

"I know, Tilly, but Alma Brown lent this to me, herself.
There's a beautiful article in it about 'The Horrors of Hunger.'
It would make your heart ache! I wish you would read it, Tilly."

"No, thank you. I don't care to have my heart ache.
I'm not going to read any more horrors about the Russians,