The sick man looked down upon her with his glittering eyes, and a
pathetic smile stole over his lips. An ague chill seized upon him,
and ran in a shiver through his limbs; but it had no power to quench
that smile of ineffable affection--that solemn, sweet smile, that
said more softly than words--

"Yes, my child, your father must die here in his poverty-stricken
home."

"No, no!" cried Mary, in fond affright; for the look affected her
more than his words; "it is only the cold, your clothes are so thin,
dear father--it is only the cold; a good warm cup of tea will drive
it off. Here is the kettle, boiling hot; besides, you are hungry--ah,
I thought of that; here are crackers and a dear little sponge-cake,
and such nice bread and butter; of course, it's only the cold and
the hunger. I always feel as if I should die the next minute, when
we've gone without anything to eat a day or two; nothing is so
discouraging as that."

She ran on thus, striving to cheat her own aching heart, while she
cheered the sick man. As if activity would drive away her fear, she
bustled about, put her tea to drawing by the stove, spread the little
table, and pulled it close to her father, and strove, by a thousand
sweet caressing ways, to entice him into an appetite. The sick man
only glanced at the food with a weary smile; but seizing upon the
warm cup of tea, drank it off eagerly, asking for more.

This was some consolation to the little nurse; and she stood by,
watching him wistfully through her tears, as he drained the second
cup. It checked the shivering fit somewhat, and he sat upwright a