would have been thrown away, for before she had time to wonder how she
was to live and rear her children, she too was sent for. In this world
she was not one of those mothers of little faith who trust God for
themselves but not for their children, and when again with her
husband, she would not trust God less.

Clare was in the garden when Sarah told him she was dead. He stood
still for a moment, then looked up, up into the blue. Why he looked
up, he could not have told; but ever since that terrible morning of
which the vague burning memory had never passed, when the great dome
into which he was gazing, burst and fell, he had a way every now and
then of standing still and looking up. His face was white. Two slow
tears gathered, rolled over, and dried upon his face. He turned to
Mary, lifted her in his arms, and, carrying her about the garden, once
more told her his strange version of what had happened in his
childhood. Then he told her that her papa and mamma had gone to look
for his papa and mamma--"somewhere up in the dome," he said.

When they wanted to take Mary to see what was left of her mother, the
boy contrived to prevent them. From morning till night he never lost
sight of the child.

One cold noon in October, when the clouds were miles deep in front of
the sun, when the rain was falling thick on the yellow leaves, and all
the paths were miry, the two children sat by the kitchen fire. Sarah
was cooking their mid-day meal, which had come from her own
pocket. She was the only servant either of them had known in the
house, and she would not leave it until some one should take charge of
them. The neighbours, dreading infection, did not come near
them. Clare sat on a little stool with Mary on his knees, nestling in