us all so sorry for you; but, Hatty, you must not let all this love spoil you; we are patient with you because we know your weakness, but we cannot help you if you do not help yourself. Don’t you recollect what dear Mr. Robertson said in his sermon? that ‘harassed nerves must be striven against, as we strive against anything that hinders our daily growth in grace.’ He said people were more tolerant of this form of weakness than of any other, and yet it caused much misery in homes, and he went on to tell us that every irritable word left unspoken, every peevish complaint hushed, was as real a victory as though we had done some great thing. ‘If we must suffer,’ he said, ‘at least let us suffer quietly, and not spend our breath in fruitless complaint. People will avoid a fretful person as though they were plague-tainted; and why? because they trouble the very atmosphere round them, and no one can enjoy peace in their neighborhood.’”

“I am sure Mr. Robertson must have meant me, Bessie.”

“No, darling, no; I won’t have you exaggerate or judge yourself too harshly. You are not always cross, or we should not be so fond of you. You make us sad sometimes, when you sit apart, brooding over some imaginary grievance; that is why father calls you Little Miss Much-Afraid.”

“Yes, you all laugh at me, but indeed the darkness is very real. Sometimes I wonder why I have been sent into the world, if I am not to be happy myself, nor to make other people happy. You are like a sunbeam yourself, Bessie, and so you hardly understand what I mean.”

“Oh, yes, I do; but I never see any good in putting questions that we cannot answer; only I am quite sure you have your duty to do, quite as much as I have mine, only you have not found it out.”

“Perhaps I am the thorn in the flesh to discipline you all into patience,” returned Hatty quaintly, for she was not without humor.

“Very well, then, my thorn; fulfil your mission,” returned Bessie, kissing her. “But I cannot keep awake and speak words of wisdom any longer.” And she scrambled over the bed, and with another cheerful “good-night,” vanished; but Hatty’s troubled thoughts were lulled by sisterly sympathy, and she soon slept peacefully. Late as it was before Bessie laid her weary head on the pillow beside her sleeping sister, it was long before her eyes closed and she sunk into utter forgetfulness. Her mind seemed crowded with vague images and disconnected thoughts. Recollections of the hours spent in Sheen Valley, the weird effect of the dusky figures passing and repassing in the dim, uncertain light, the faint streaks of light across the snow, the dull winter sky, the eager welcome of the lonely girl, the long friendly talk ripening into budding intimacy, all passed vividly before her, followed by Hatty’s artless confession.

“Poor little thing!” thought Bessie compassionately, for there was a specially soft place in her heart for Hatty. She had always been her particular charge. All Hatty’s failures, her miserable derelictions of duty, her morbid self-accusations and nervous fancies, bred of a sickly body and over-anxious temperament, were breathed into Bessie’s sympathizing ear. Hatty’s feebleness borrowed strength and courage from Bessie’s vigorous counsels. She felt braced by mere contact with such a strong, healthy organization. She was always less fretful and impatient when Bessie was near; her cheery influence cleared away many a cloud that threatened to obscure Hatty’s horizon.

“Bear ye one another’s burdens,” was a command literally obeyed by Bessie in her unselfish devotion to Hatty, her self-sacrificing efforts to cheer and rouse her; but she never could be made to understand that there was any merit in her conduct.

“I know Hatty is often cross, and ready to take offence,” she would say; “but I think we ought to make allowances for her. I don’t think we realize how much she has to bear—that she never feels well.”

“Oh, that is all very well,” Christine would answer, for she had a quick temper too, and would fire up after one of Hatty’s sarcastic little speeches; “but it is time Hatty learned self-control. I dare say you are often tired after your Sunday class, but no one hears a cross word from you.”

“Oh, I keep it all in,” Bessie returned, laughing. “But I dare say I feel cross all the same. I don’t think any of us can guess what it must be to wake depressed and languid every morning. A louder voice than usual does not make our heads ache, yet I have seen Hatty wince with pain when Tom indulged in one of his laughs.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Christine, only half convinced by this. “Of course it is very trying, but Hatty must be used to it by this time, for she has never been strong from a baby; and yet she is always bemoaning herself, as though it were something fresh.”

“It is not easy to get used to this sort of trouble,” answered Bessie, rather sadly. “And I must say I always feel very sorry for Hatty,” and so the conversation closed.

But in her heart Bessie said: “It is all very well to preach patience, and I for one am always preaching it to Hatty, but it is not so easy to practice it. Mother and Christine are always praising me for being so good tempered; but if one feels strong and well, and has a healthy appetite and good digestion, it is very easy to keep from being cross; but in other ways I am not half so good as Hatty; she is the purest, humblest little soul breathing.”

In spite of late hours, Bessie was downstairs the next morning at her usual time; she always presided at the breakfast-table. Since her eldest son’s death, Mrs. Lambert had lost much of her strength and energy, and though her husband refused to acknowledge her as an invalid, or to treat her as one, yet most of her duties had devolved upon Bessie, whose useful energy supplemented her mother’s failing powers.

Bessie had briefly hinted at her family sorrow; she was not one at any time to dwell upon her feelings, nor to indulge in morbid retrospection, but it was true that the loss of that dearly loved son and brother had clouded the bright home atmosphere. Mrs. Lambert had borne her trouble meekly, and had striven to comfort her husband who had broken down under the sudden blow. She spoke little, even to her daughters, of the grief that was slowly consuming her; but as time went on, and Dr. Lambert recovered his cheerfulness, he noticed that his wife drooped and ailed more than usual; she had grown into slow quiet ways that seemed to point to failing strength.

“Bessie, your mother is not as young as she used to be,” he said abruptly, one morning, “She does not complain, but then she is not one of the complaining sort; she was always a quiet creature; but you girls must put your shoulders to the wheel, and spare her as much as possible.” And from that day Bessie had become her mother’s crutch.

It was a wonderful relief to the harassed mother when she found a confidante to whom she could pour out all her anxieties.

Dr. Lambert was not a rich man; his practice was large, but many of his patients were poor, and he had heavy expenses. The hilly roads and long distances obliged him to keep two horses. He had sent both his sons to Oxford, thinking a good education would be their best inheritance, and this had obliged him to curtail domestic expenses. He was a careful man, too, who looked forward to the future, and thought it his duty to lay aside a yearly sum to make provision for his wife and children.

“I have only one son now, and Hatty will always be a care, poor child,” he said more than once.

So, though there