was only
selfishly thinking of my own trouble, and what a poor, pitiful affair it
seems, compared to yours. Oh! auntie, how good and patient you are!"

"No, no, Bertie, I'm very far from good, and not nearly so patient as
you think; but as we grow older, dear, we learn to suffer in silence,
and some griefs are too deep for words or tears. If we had only our own
strength to support us, how could we endure such sudden incurable losses
as mine?"

Bertie was silent for a few moments, then he stood up, and laid both his
hands on his aunt's shoulders and looked earnestly at her.

"I will take care of you; I will remember every word dear Uncle Harry
said. Can I begin now? Can I do anything at all, Aunt Amy, this very
day?"

"No, dear, except to lie down and rest, and get rid of your cold. I have
thought of nothing yet, except to telegraph for Nancy to come down and
take the children home, and to Mr. Williams. I have not another friend
in the world now, Bertie. We poor Rivers's are left to ourselves!"

"You forget Mr. Murray," Bertie said. "You can't think how kind and
generous he is; he will help us in every way; and surely Uncle Gregory
will come!"

"I fear not, dear. Uncle Gregory and Uncle Harry were not related, and
never very intimate; but indeed, there is nothing any one can do for us.
Besides, Uncle Harry's wishes are very plain; his will is not a dozen
lines," and Mrs Clair sighed deeply. She knew her husband had died
poor--not worth a couple of hundred pounds, perhaps--but she did not
know of the many small debts contracted through thoughtlessness, and
left unpaid through carelessness, or she would have been still more
anxious about the future. It was the sudden feeling of loneliness and
desolation, the sudden sense of responsibility and helplessness
combined, that seemed almost to stupefy her.

The worst of that first day of her bereavement was that she had nothing
to do: strangers performed all needful offices; but it was a comfort to
pet and nurse Bertie, because they had all been left in his care--a
circumstance Eddie bitterly resented, though he was quite silent on the
subject. Though reluctant to lie down, Bertie had not been many minutes
on the sofa before he was sound asleep, and when he awoke, he found
Nancy, the old housekeeper from Fitzroy Square, had arrived, and was
busy making preparations for their departure. Aunt Amy was with her, and
just at that moment Mr. Murray entered the room, holding a t