on a pallet. The blankets on his bed were insufficient even for him.
She put her hands over her face, and for a moment dry sobs convulsed
her. The hardest grief is often that which leaves no trace. When she
went back to the stove she had a smile ready for the sick boy.

"Here's the very thing," she said; "it's my dress skirt. I don't
need it a mite, settin' up here so clost to the fire. See how nice
it tucks in all 'round!"

For a while he lay silent, then he said: "Ma, are you 'wake?"

"Yes, Jim."

"Well, I bin thinking it over. If I ain't better in the morning I
guess--" the words came reluctantly--"I guess you'd better go
see the Christmas lady. I wouldn't mind her knowin' so much. 'T
won't be fer long, nohow, cause I kin take keer of you all
soon--soon 's I kin git up."

The talking brought on severe coughing, and he sank back exhausted.

"Can't you go to sleep, honey?" asked his mother.

"No, it's them ole wheels," he said fretfully, "them wheels at the
fact'ry; when I git to sleep they keep on wakin' me up."

Mrs. Wiggs's hands were rough and knotted, but love taught them to
be gentle as she smoothed his hot head.

"Want me to tell you 'bout the country, Jim?" she asked.

Since he was a little boy he had loved to hear of their old home in
the valley. His dim recollection of it all formed his one conception
of heaven.

"Yes, ma; mebbe it will make me fergit the wheels," he said.

"Well," she began, putting her head beside his on the pillow, so he
could not watch her face, "it was all jes' like a big front yard
without no fences, an' the flowers didn't belong to folks like they
do over on the avenue, where you dassent pick a one; but they was
God's, an' you was welcome to all you could pull. An' there was
trees, Jim, where you could climb up an' git big red apples, an'
when the frost 'ud come they'd be persimmons that 'ud jes' melt in
yer mouth. An' you could look 'way off 'crost the meaders, an' see
the trees a-wavin' in the sunshine, an' up over yer head the birds
'ud be singin' like they was never goin' to stop. An' yer pa an' me
'ud take you out at the harvestin' time, an' you 'ud play on the
hay-stacks. I kin remember jes' how you looked, Jim--a fat little
boy, with red cheeks a-laughin' all the time."

Mrs. Wiggs could tell no more, for the old memories were too much
for her. Jim scarcely knew when she stopped; his eyes were half
closed, and a sweet drowsiness was upon him.

"It's nice an' wa