so poorly. Yet the little girl with difficulty kept a cheerful countenance; as often as a moment’s silence left her to her own reflections she was reminded of the heaviness of heart which made speaking an effort. To bear up under the secret thought of her crime and its consequences required in Ida Starr a courage different alike in quality and degree from that of which children are ordinarily capable. One compensation alone helped her; it was still early in the evening, and she knew there were before her long hours to be spent by her mother’s side.
“Do you like me to be with you, mother?” she asked, when a timid question had at length elicited assurance of this joy. “Does it make you feel better?”
“Yes, yes. But it’s my throat, and you can’t make that better; I only wish you could. But you are a comfort to me, for all that; I don’t know what I should do without you. Oh, I sha’n’t be able to speak a word soon, I sha’n’t!”
“Don’t, don’t talk, dear. I’ll talk instead, and you listen. Don’t you think, mother dear, I could—could always sleep with you? I
