"You will be better now," he said presently. "Now drink this, then
lie down on the sofa. We must not be having you ill, you know."

Frank gulped down the contents of the glass, and, passive as a
child, allowed the doctor to place him upon the sofa.

"God help and strengthen you, my poor boy," he said; "ask help from
Him."

For an hour Frank lay sobbing on the sofa, and then, remembering
the doctor's last words, he knelt beside it and prayed for strength.

A week had passed. The blinds were up again. Mrs. Hargate had been
laid in her last home, and Frank was sitting alone again in the
little parlor thinking over what had best be done. The outlook
was a dark one, enough to shake the courage of one much older than
Frank. His mother's pension, he knew, died with her. He had, on
the doctor's advice, written to the War Office on the day following
his mother's death, to inform the authorities of the circumstances,
and to ask if any pension could be granted to his sister. The reply
had arrived that morning and had relieved him of the greatest of
his cares. It stated that as he was now just fifteen years old he
was not eligible for a pension, but that twenty-five pounds a year
would be paid to his sister until she married or attained the age
of twenty-one.

He had spoken to the doctor that morning, and the latter said that
he knew a lady who kept a small school, and who would, he doubted
not, be willing to receive Lucy and to board and clothe her for
that sum. She was a very kind and motherly person, and he was sure