now, if she
had known that no such glory remained to her,--that Sir Francis
Challoner had long filled the cup of his iniquities, and lay in his
wife's tomb in some distant cemetery, leaving a certain red-headed Sir
Harry to reign in his stead.

"I don't think we had better talk anymore," observed Phillis, somewhat
brusquely: and then she exchanged meaning looks with Nan. The two
girls were somewhat dismayed at their mother's wan looks; her
feebleness and uncertainty of speech, the very vagueness of her
lamentations, filled them with sad forebodings for the future. How
were they to leave her, when they commenced that little fight with the
world? She had leaned on them so long that her helplessness had become
a matter of habit.

Nan understood her sister's warning glance, and she made no further
allusion to Sir Francis; she only rose with assumed briskness, and
took her mother in charge.

"Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling," she said,
cheerfully. "Phillis is quite right: we will not talk any more
to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-morrow. We will just
say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, and hope that things may
turn out better than we expect." And, as Mrs. Challoner was too
utterly spent to resist this wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious
mission with some success. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her
head against her mother's pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of
hearing the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgotten
her troubles for a little while.

"Poor dear mother! how exhausted she must have been!" thought Nan, as
she closed the door softly. She was far too anxious and wide awake
herself to dream of retiring to rest. She was somewhat surprised to
find her sisters' room dark and empty as she passed. They must be
still downstairs, talking over things in the firelight: they were as
little inclined for sleep as she was. Phillis's carefully decocted tea
must have stimulated them to wakefulness.

The room was still bright with firelight. Dulce was curled up in her
mother's chair, and had evidently been indulging in what she called "a
good cry." Phillis, sombre and thoughtful, was pacing the room, with
her hands clasped behind her head,--a favorite attitude of hers when
she was in any perplexity. She stopped short as Nan regarded her with
some astonishment from the threshold.

"Oh, come in, Nan: it will be such a relief to talk to a sensible
person. Dulce