is so silly, she does nothing but cry."

"I can't help it," returned Dulce, with another sob; "everything is so
horrible, and Phillis will say such dreadful things."

"Poor little soul!" said Nan, in a sympathetic voice, sitting down on
the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce's hair; "it is very hard for
her and for us all," with a pent-up sigh.

"Of course it is hard," retorted Phillis, confronting them rather
impatiently from the hearth-rug; "it is bitterly hard. But it is not
worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying will not mend matters,
and it is a sheer waste of tears. As I tell her, what we have to do
now is to make the best of things, and see what is to be done under
the circumstances."

"Yes, indeed," repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her arm round Dulce,
and drew her head against her shoulder. The action comforted Dulce,
and her tears soon ceased to flow.

"I am thinking about mother," went on Phillis, pondering her words
slowly as she spoke; "she does look so ill and weak. I do not see how
we are to leave her."

Mrs. Challoner's moral helplessness and dread of responsibility were
so sacred in her daughters' eyes that they rarely alluded to them
except in this vague fashion. For years they had shielded and petted
her, and given way to her little fads and fancies, until she had
developed into a sort of gentle hypochondriac.

"Mother cannot bear this; we always keep these little worries from
her," Nan had been accustomed to say; and the others had followed her
example.

The unspoken thought lay heavy upon them now. How were they to prevent
the rough winds of adversity from blowing too roughly upon their
cherished charge? The roof, and perhaps the crust, might be theirs;
but how were they to contrive that she should not miss her little
comforts? They would gladly work; but how, and after what fashion?

Phillis was the first to plunge into the unwelcome topic, for Nan felt
almost as helpless and bewildered as Dulce.

"We must go into the thing thoroughly," began Phillis, drawing a chair
opposite to her sisters. She was very pale, but her eyes had a certain
brightness of determination. She looked too young for that quiet
care-worn look that had come so suddenly to her; but one felt she
could be equal to any emergency. "We are down-hearted, of course; but
we have plenty of time for all that sort of thing. The question is,
how are we to live?"

"Just so," observed Nan, rather dubiously; and Dulce