hed and fed
them with nice things, and they grew to her an immense hobby and
constant occupation.

She also became a quite surprising performer on the banjo, which her
father had taught her when she was quite a little girl, and invented
charming tunes and effects and modulations that had never been tried
on that humble instrument before. She could have made a handsome
living out of it, crippled as she was.

She seemed the busiest, drollest, and most contented person in
Marsfield; she all but consoled us for the dreadful thing that had
happened to herself, and laughingly pitied us for pitying her.

So much for the teaching of Barty Josselin, whose books she knew by
heart, and constantly read and reread.

And thus, in spite of all, the old, happy, resonant cheerfulness
gradually found its way back to Marsfield, as though nothing had
happened; and poor broken Marty, who had always been our idol,
became our goddess, our prop and mainstay, the angel in the house,
the person for every one to tell their troubles to--little or
big--their jokes, their good stories; there was never a laugh like
hers, so charged with keen appreciation of the humorous thing, the
relish of which would come back to her again and again at any
time--even in the middle of the night when she could not always
sleep for her pain; and she would laugh anew.

Ida Scatcherd and I, with good Nurse Sparrow to help, wished to take
her to Italy--to Egypt--but she would not leave Marsfield, unless it
were to spend the winter months with all of us at Lancaster Gate, or
the autumn in the Highlands or on the coast of Normandy.

[Illustration: MARTY]

And indeed neither Barty nor Leah nor the rest could have got on without
her; they would have had to come, too--brothers, sisters, young
husbands, grandchildren, and all.

Never but once did she give way. It was one June evening, when I was
reading to her some favorite short poems out of Browning's _Men and
Women_ on a small lawn surrounded with roses, and of which she was
fond.

The rest of the family were on the river, except her father and
mother, who were dressing to go and dine with some neighbors; for a
wonder, as they seldom dined away from home.

The carriage drove up to the door to fetch them, and they came out
on the lawn to wish us good-night.

Never had I been more struck with the splendor of Barty and his
wife, now verging towards middle age, as they bent over to kiss
their daughter, and he cu