lace in her sleeves.

"Very well, dearie," returned her daughter. "You shall have it right
away," she added over her shoulder as she left the room.

In the tiny kitchen beyond the sitting-room Margaret Whitmore lighted
the gas-stove and set the water on to boil. Then she arranged a small
tray with a bit of worn damask and the only cup and saucer of delicate
china that the shelves contained. Some minutes later she went back to
her mother, tray in hand.

"'Most starved to death?" she demanded merrily, as she set the tray upon
the table Katherine had made ready before the blind woman. "You have
your roll, your tea, your orange, as you ordered, dear, and just a bit
of currant jelly besides."

"Currant jelly? Well, I don't know,--perhaps it will taste good. 'T was
so like Nora to send it up; she's always trying to tempt my appetite,
you know. Dear me, girls, I wonder if you realize what a treasure we
have in that cook!"

"Yes, dear, I know," murmured Margaret hastily. "And now the tea,
Mother--it's getting colder every minute. Will you have the orange
first?"

The slender hands of the blind woman hovered for a moment over the
table, then dropped slowly and found by touch the position of spoons,
plates, and the cup of tea.

"Yes, I have everything. I don't need you any longer, Meg. I don't like