ory of the
Stable and the Child. If she were doing a healthier work on the souls of
that morbid Jem and glutton Tom than could a thousand after-sermons, she
did not know it: never guessed, either, when they absorbed day by day
hardly enough the force of her tough-muscled endurance and wholesome
laugh, that she prepared the way of the Lord and made His paths
straight. Yet what matter who knew?

But to go on with our story. There were times--once or twice to-night,
for instance--when she ceased doing even her unconscious work.
Assuredly, somewhere back in her life, something had gone amiss with
this silly, helpful creature, and left a taint on her brain. The hearty,
pretty smile would go suddenly from her face, something foreign looking
out of it, instead, as if a pestilent thought had got into her soul; she
would rise uneasily, going to the window, looking out, her forehead
leaning on the glass, her body twitching weakly. One would think from
her face she saw some work in the world which God had forgotten. What
could it matter to her? Whatever hurt her, it was the one word which her
garrulous lips never hinted. Once to-night she spoke more plainly than
Jem had ever known her to do in all his life. It was after the children
had gone to bed, which they did, shouting and singing, and playing
circus-riders over the pillows, their mother leaning her elbows on the
foot-board, laughing, in the mean time. Jem got up, after the others
were asleep, and stole after her, in his little flannel drawers, back to
the kitchen. By the window again, as he had feared, the woollen sock
which she was knitting for Tom in her hand, the yarn all tangled and
broken. Ready was by her knees, winking sleepily. The old dog was
growing surly with his years, as we said: Jem remembered when he used to
romp and tussle with him, but that was long ago: he lay in the
chimney-corner always now, growling at Martha herself even, if her
singing or laugh disturbed his nap. But when these strange moods came on
her, Jem noticed that the yellow old beast seemed conscious of it sooner
than any one beside, crept up to her, stood by her: that she clung to
him, not to her children. He was licking her hand now, his red eye,
drowsy though it was, watching her as if danger were nigh. A dog you
would not slight. Inside of his hot-headedness and courage there was
that reserved look in his eyes, which some men and brutes have, that
says they have a life of their own to live