best of herself, and that is all she could have done if she had known.



CHAPTER 2

THE STRICKEN HOME

Henry Hill sat before the fire with his head in his hands and his elbows
upon his knees, a picture of utter dejection and sorrow. The house was
quiet with an unearthly quietness, those who were compelled to speak using
the lowest tones, and tiptoeing about. The little ones, Doyle, Lila, and
Harry, were not at home. Amy and Nell were silently, tearfully, trying to
wash the few dishes that had been used at the almost untouched breakfast.
The boys were attending to the morning chores, with faces as solemn and
hearts as heavy as each could carry. A neighbor woman, kind, sympathetic,
and busy, but with the same sadness pictured upon her face, kept coming and
going between the bedroom and the room in which Mr. Hill sat.

Only that morning the physician had been there and had told them that she
whose life had been the light and strength of the home was lying now upon
her death-bed, that she would never again rise to take the burdens of life,
that they would have to let her go. He had felt for Henry Hill as he had
spoken, for the white horror and anguish in the man's face would have
called out sympathy from a harder heart; but he wanted to say also that had
she been given a lighter load to carry, if some of the anxiety and concern
that now stirred his heart had been expressed when his wife was well,
things might not now be as they are. But the kind doctor left these words
unsaid. Henry Hill had all he could bear without them.