other?" asked Harold, aged six.

"Something like picnicking, darling. People who live in the country, or
who are rich,"--here Mrs. Home sighed--"often, in the bright summer
weather, take their dinner or their tea, and they go out into the woods
or the green fields and eat there. I have been to gypsy teas; they are
great fun. We lit a fire and boiled the kettle over it, and made the
tea; it was just the same tea as we had at home, but somehow it tasted
much better out-of-doors."

"Was that some time ago, mother?" asked little Daisy.

"It would seem a long, long time to you, darling; but it was not so many
years ago."

"Mother," asked Harold, "why aren't we rich, or why don't we live in the
country?"

A dark cloud, caused by some deeper emotion than the mere fact of being
poor, passed over the mother's face.

"We cannot live in the country," she said, "because your father has a
curacy in this part of London. Your father is a brave man, and he must
not desert his post."

"Then why aren't we rich?" persisted the boy.

"Because--because--I cannot answer you that, Harold; and now I must run
downstairs again. Father is coming in earlier than usual to-night, and
you and Daisy may come down for a little bit after tea--that is, if you
promise to be very good children now, and not to quarrel. See, baby has
dropped asleep; who will sit by him and keep him from waking until Anne
comes back?"

"I, mother," said Harold, and, "I, mother," said Daisy.

"That is best," said the gentle-voiced mother; "you both shall keep him
very quiet and safe; Harold shall sit on this side of his little cot and
Daisy at the other."

Both children placed themselves, mute as mice, by the baby's side, with
the proud look of being trusted on their little faces. The mother kissed
them and flew downstairs. There was no time for quiet or leisurely
movement in that little house; in the dingy parlor, the gas had now been
lighted, and the fire burned better and brighter, and Anne with most
praiseworthy efforts, was endeavoring to make some toast, which, alas!
she only succeeded in burning. Mrs. Home took the toasting-fork out of
her hands.

"There, Anne, that will do nicely: I will finish the toast. Now please
run away, and take Miss Mitchell's dinner up to her; she is to have a
little pie to-night and some baked potatoes; they are all waiting, and
hot in the oven, and then please go back to the children."

Anne, a really good-tempered little mai