shall have to see about it, and let her have a little rest.”

He was one of the school committee.

“I don't need any vacation,” said Lois, in a peremptory tone.

“I guess we shall have to see about it,” repeated Mr. Starr. There was an odd undertone of decision in his drawling voice. He was a large man, with a pleasant face full of double curves. “Good-day,” said he, after a minute. “I guess I must be goin'.”

“Good-day,” said Lois. “I'm much obliged to you for bringing me home.”

“You're welcome.”

Amanda nodded politely when he withdrew, but Mrs. Field never looked at him. She stood with her eyes fixed upon Lois.

“What are you looking at me so for, mother?” said Lois, impatiently, turning her own face away.

Mrs. Field sank down on her knees before the sofa. “Oh, my child!” she wailed. “My child! my child!”

She threw her arms around the girl's slender waist, and clung to her convulsively. Lois cast a terrified glance up at Amanda.

“Does she think I ain't going to get well?” she asked, as if her mother were not present.

“Of course she don't,” replied Amanda, with decision. She stooped and took hold of Mrs. Field's shoulders. “Now look here, Mis' Field,” said she, “you ain't actin' like yourself. You're goin' to make Lois sick, if she ain't now, if you go on this way. You get up an' make her a cup of tea, an' get her somethin' to eat. Ten chances to one, that's all that ailed her. I don't believe she's eat enough to-day to keep a cat alive.”

“I know all about it,” moaned Mrs. Field. “It's jest what I expected. Oh, my child! my child! I have prayed an' done all I could, an' now it's come to this. I've got to give up. Oh, my child! my child!”

It was to this mother as though her daughter was not there, although she held her in her arms. She was in that abandon of grief which is the purest selfishness.

Amanda fairly pulled her to her feet. “Mis' Field, I'm ashamed of you!” said she, severely. “I should think you were beside yourself. Here's Lois better—”

“No, she ain't better. I know.”

Mrs. Field straightened herself, and went out into the kitchen.

Lois looked again at Amanda, in a piteous, terrified fashion. “Oh,” said she, “you don't think I'm so very sick, do you?”

“Very sick? No; of course you ain't. Your mother got dreadful nervous because you didn't come home. That's what made her act so. You look a good deal better than you did when you first came in.”

“I feel better,” said Lois. “I never saw mother act so in my life.”

“She got all wrought up, waitin'. If I was you, I'd lay down a few minutes, jest on her account. I think it would make her feel easier.”

“Well, I will, if you think I'd better; but there ain't a mite of need of it.”

Lois laid her head down on the sofa arm.

“That's right,” said Amanda. “You can jest lay there a little while. I'm goin' out to tell your mother to make you a cup of tea. That'll set you right up.”

Amanda found Mrs. Field already making the tea. She measured it out carefully, and never looked around. Amanda stepped close to her.

“Mis' Field,” she whispered, “I hope you wa'n't hurt by what I said. I meant it for the best.”

“I sha'n't give way so again,” said Mrs. Field. Her face had a curious determined expression.

“I hope you don't feel hurt?”

“No, I don't. I sha'n't give way so again.” She poured the boiling water into the teapot, and set it on the stove.

Amanda looked at a covered dish on the stove hearth. “What was you goin' to have for dinner?” said she.

“Lamb broth. I'm goin' to heat up some for her. She didn't eat hardly a mouthful of breakfast.”

“That's jest the thing for her. I'll get out the kettle and put it on to heat. I dun'no' of anything that gits cold any quicker than lamb broth, unless it's love.”

Amanda put on a cheerful air as she helped Mrs. Field. Presently the two women carried in the little repast to Lois.

“She's asleep,” whispered Amanda, who went first with the tea.

They stood looking at the young girl, stretched out her slender length, her white delicate profile showing against the black arm of the sofa.

Her mother caught her breath. “She's got to be waked up; she's got to have some nourishment, anyhow,” said she. “Come, Lois, wake up, and have your dinner.”

Lois opened her eyes. All the animation and defiance were gone from her face. She was so exhausted that she made no resistance to anything. She let them raise her, prop her up with a pillow, and nearly feed her with the dinner. Then she lay back, and her eyes closed.

Amanda went home, and Mrs. Field went back to the kitchen to put away the dinner dishes. She had eaten nothing herself, and now she poured some of the broth into a cup, and drank it down with great gulps without tasting it. It was simply filling of a necessity the lamp of life with oil.

After her housework was done, she sat down in the kitchen with her knitting. There was no sound from the other room.

The latter part of the afternoon Amanda came past the window and entered the back door. She carried a glass of foaming beer. Amanda was famous through the neighborhood for this beer, which she concocted from roots and herbs after an ancient recipe. It was pleasantly flavored with aromatic roots, and instinct with agreeable bitterness, being an innocently tonic old-maiden brew.

“I thought mebbe she'd like a glass of my beer,” whispered Amanda. “I came round the house so's not to disturb her. How is she?”

“I guess she's asleep. I ain't heard a sound.”

Amanda set the glass on the table. “Don't you think you'd ought to have a doctor, Mis' Field?” said she.

It seemed impossible that Lois could have heard, but her voice came shrilly from the other room: “No, I ain't going to have a doctor; there's no need of it. I sha'n't like it if you get one, mother.”

“No, you sha'n't have one, dear child,” her mother called back. “She was always jest so about havin' a doctor,” she whispered to Amanda.

“I'll take in the beer if she's awake,” said Amanda.

Lois looked up when she entered. “I don't want a doctor,” said she, pitifully, rolling her blue eyes.

“Of course you sha'n't have a doctor if you don't want one,” returned Amanda, soothingly. “I thought mebbe you'd like a glass of my beer.”

Lois drank the beer eagerly, then she sank back and closed her eyes. “I'm going to get up in a minute, and sew on my dress,” she murmured.

But she did not stir until her mother helped her to bed early in the evening.

The next day she seemed a little better. Luckily it was Saturday, so there was no worry about her school for her. She would not lie down, but sat in the rocking-chair with her needle-work in her lap. When any one came in, she took it up and sewed. Several of the neighbors had heard she was ill, and came to inquire. She told them, with a defiant air, that she was very well, and they looked shocked and nonplussed. Some of them beckoned her mother out into the entry when they took leave, and Lois heard them whispering together.

The next day, Sunday, Lois seemed about the same. She said once that she was going to church, but she did not speak of it again. Mrs. Field went. She suggested staying at home, but Lois was indignant.

“Stay at home with me, no sicker than I am! I should think you were crazy, mother,” said she.

So Mrs. Field got out her Sunday clothes and went to meeting. As soon as she had gone, Lois coughed; she had been choking the cough back. She stood at the window, well back that people might not see her, and watched her mother pass down the street with her stiff glide. Mrs. Field's back and shoulders were rigidly steady when she walked; she might have carried a jar of water on her head without spilling it, like an