worst of myself--it is out now.

We talked for a long time after that about the new life that lay
before us, and again I marveled at mother's patience and submission;
but when I told her so she only hid her face and wept.

"What does it matter?" she said, at last, when she had recovered
herself a little. "No home can be quite a home to me now without him.
If I could live within sight of his grave, I should be thankful; but
Combe Manor and Milnthrope are the same to me now." And though these
words struck me as strange at first, I understood afterward; for in
the void and waste of her widowed life no outer change of
circumstances seemed to disturb her, except for our sakes and for us.

She seemed to feel Uncle Geoffrey's kindness as a sort of stay and
source of endless comfort. "Such goodness--such unselfishness!" she
kept murmuring to herself; and then she wanted to hear all that Allan
and I proposed.

"How I wish I could get strong and help you," she said, wistfully,
when I had finished. "With all that teaching and housekeeping, I am
afraid you will overtax your strength."

"Oh, no, Carrie will help me," I returned, confidently. "Uncle
Geoffrey is going to speak to some of his patients about us. He
rather thinks those Thornes who live opposite to him want a
governess."

"That will be nice and handy, and save you a walk," she returned,
brightening up at the notion that one of us would be so near her; but