n said, at last. She was
kneeling at her feet, chafing her hands, and Phillis was fanning her;
but she pushed them both away from her with weak violence.

"It is I whose heart is breaking! Why must I live to see such things?
Dorothy, do you know my daughters are going to be dressmakers?--my
daughters, who are Challoners,--who have been delicately
nurtured,--who might hold up their heads with any one?"

"Dorothy, hold your tongue!" exclaimed Phillis, peremptorily. "You are
not to speak; this is for us to decide, and no one else. Mammy, you
are making Nan look quite pale: she is dreadfully tired, and so am I.
Why need we decide anything to-night? Every one is upset and excited,
and when that is the case one can never arrive at any proper
conclusion. Let us talk about it to-morrow, when we are rested." And,
though Mrs. Challoner would not allow herself to be comforted, Nan's
fatigue and paleness were so visible to her maternal eyes that they
were more eloquent than Phillis's words.

"I must not think only of myself. Yes, yes, I will do as you wish.
There will be time enough for this sort of talk to-morrow. Dorothy,
will you help me? The young ladies are tired; they have had a long
journey. No, my dear, no," as Dulce pressed forward; "I would rather
have Dorothy." And, as the old servant gave them a warning glance,
they were obliged to let her have her way.

"Mammy has never been like this before," pouted Dulce, when they were
left alone. "She drives us away from her as though we had done
something purposely to vex her."

"It is because she cannot bear the sight of us to-night," returned
Phillis, solemnly. "It is worse for her than for us; a mother feels
things for her children more than for herself; it is nature, that is
what it is," she finished philosophically; "but she will be better
to-morrow." And after this the miserable little conclave broke up.

Mrs. Challoner passed a sleepless night, and her pillow was sown with
thorns. To think of the Challoners falling so low as this! To think of
her pretty Nan, her clever, bright Phillis, her pet Dulce coming to
this; "oh, the pity of it!" she cried in the dark hours, when vitality
runs lowest, and thoughts seem to flow involuntarily towards a dark
centre.

But with the morning came sunshine, and her girl's faces,--a little
graver than usual, perhaps, but still full of youth and the brightness
of energy; and the sluggish nightmare of yesterday's grief began to
fade a