bedside, which contained some cordial in a glass. The sick woman's
long thin hands lay outside the crimson counterpane, and her eyes,
dark and wistful, were turned in the direction of the door. Bet went
straight up to the bed: the transformation in the room was nothing to
her; she saw it, and guessed quickly that Sister Mary had done it; but
the look, the changed look on her mother's face, was everything. She
forgot her own wrongs and the burnt book; her heart was filled with
a wild fear, a dreary sense of coming desolation seized her, and
clasping her mother's long thin fingers in her own brown strong hands,
she bent down and whispered in a husky voice,

"Mother--oh, mother!"

The woman looked up and smiled.

"You've come back, Bet?" she said. "Give me a drop of the cordial. I'm
glad you've come back. I thought it might have been the will of Him
who knows best that I should die without seeing of you again,
Elizabeth."

"Oh, no, mother--of course I've come back. I hurried home. I didn't
stay for nobody. How nice the room looks, mother--and the kettle boils.
I'll make you a cup o' tea."

"No, Bet, I don't want it; stoop down, and look at me. Bet, look me
in the eyes--oh, my girl, my girl!"

Bet gazed unflinchingly at her mother. The two faces were somewhat
alike--the same red gleam in the brown eyes, the same touch of red on
the abundant hair; but one face was tired, worn out, and the other was