appear in the keeping-room, and fancied them sitting at their work,
wondering, perhaps, that nobody came to read to them.

One day, when I had not been there for three days and nights, I
received, while at work in my shop, a sudden summons from home. My
mother, the little boy said, was very sick. I hurried home in great
agitation. I could not bear the thought that sickness or death should
reach my dear mother. Mrs. Wood met me at the door, to say that a
physician had been sent for, but that my mother was relieved and there
was no immediate danger. I hurried to her chamber and found--Jane by
her bedside. For all my anxiety about my mother, I felt the hot flush
spreading over my face. It seemed so good to see her taking care of my
mother! In my agitation, I caught hold of her hand and spoke before I
thought.

"Oh, Jane," I whispered, "I am so glad you are here!"

Her face turned as red as fire. I thought she was angry at my boldness,
or, perhaps, because I called her Jane.

"Excuse me," said I. "I am so agitated about mother that I hardly know
what I am about."

When the doctor came, he gave hopes that my mother would recover; but
she never did. She suffered little, but grew weaker and weaker every
day. Jane was with her day and night; for my mother liked her about her
bed better than anybody. Oh, what a strange two weeks were those! My
mother was so much to me, how could I give her up? She was the only
person on earth who cared for me, and she must die! Yet side by side in
my heart with this great grief was the great joy of living, day after
day, night after night, under the same roof with Jane. By necessity
thrown constantly with her, feeling bound to see that she, too, did not
get sick, with watching and weariness,--yet feeling myself obliged to
measure my words, to keep up an unnatural stiffness, lest I should break
down, and she know all my weakness!

At last all was over,--my mother was dead. It is of no use,--I never can
put into words the frenzied state of my feelings at that time. I had not
even the poor comfort of grieving like other people. I ground my teeth
and almost cursed myself, when the feeling would come that sorrow for
my mother's death was mingled with regrets that there was no longer any
excuse for my remaining in the same neighborhood with Jane. I reproached
myself with having made my mother's death-bed a place of happiness; for
my conscience told me that those two weeks had been, in one sens