"Oh, dear! I do wish it would stop raining," sighed Betty, glancing out of the window one wet afternoon a few days later. "It's rained just as hard as it can for two whole days, and it doesn't look a bit more like clearing now than it did yesterday morning."

"I hope mother won't take any more cold," said Jack, rather anxiously, pausing in his task of endeavoring to draw a sketch from memory of an automobile. "She coughed dreadfully last night; it woke me up. I wish she didn't have to go out on rainy days."

"So do I," said Betty decidedly. "Don't you hate being poor, Jack?"

"If you were only grown up," Jack went on, ignoring his sister's question, "you could go out and give the lessons on wet days or when mother didn't feel well, and she could stay at home and rest."

"No, I couldn't," said Betty, dolefully. "You know I'm not a bit musical; I couldn't play like mother if I tried all my life. I don't see how I'm ever going to be any kind of a teacher if I can't go to school and get a diploma. People can't teach without diplomas; Mrs. Flynn says so. Her daughter's trying for one this year."

"Well, you would be able to do something any way," Jack maintained, "and mother wouldn't have to work so dreadfully hard. I wish you were grown up, Betty, only then I should have to be grown up too, and I shouldn't like that."

"Why not?" inquired Betty in some surprise.

Jack flushed, and turned his face towards the wall.

"I don't know exactly," he stammered, "but I think—I'm sure it must be much worse to be a grown up cripple, than to be a little boy one."

Betty left her seat by the window, and coming over to her brother's side, sat down on the end of the sofa by Jack's feet.

"You wouldn't mind so much if you could be a great artist and paint beautiful pictures, would you, Jack?" she asked gently.

"N—no, I don't suppose I should, not quite so much, because then I could sell my pictures, and make lots of money for you and mother. Then we could live in a lovely place in the country, and keep a carriage."

"And you could go to drive every day," added Betty, falling in at once with Jack's fancy, "and mother could have a fine piano, and go to hear all the concerts and operas. Then we could give money to poor people instead of having people want to give it to us, and I could be very accomplished, and go to parties sometimes."

"Yes," said Jack eagerly, "and some time we could all go to England, and see the place where mother used to live."

Betty looked a little doubtful.

"I don't know whether mother would like that or not," she said. "You see, when mother lived there she knew father, and now he's dead. It might make her feel badly to go back."

"So it might; I never thought about that, but she might like to see Uncle Jack. I should like to see him, shouldn't you, Betty?"

"Yes; I wonder if we ever shall. Mother doesn't like to have us talk much about him, but I know she loves him very much; her eyes always look that way when she tells us how handsome and splendid he used to be when he was a boy."

"Wouldn't it be nice if Winifred Hamilton came to see us this afternoon," Jack remarked rather irrelevantly; "I do like her very much, don't you?"

"Yes, she's lovely; she said she'd come to see you some day."

"We haven't seen her since the day we went for the drive. Perhaps she's waiting for you to call on her first."

"Mother won't let me go," said Betty regretfully; "she says she's afraid Mrs. Hamilton might not want Winifred to know us."

"But if she hadn't wanted to know us she wouldn't have taken us to drive, would she?"

"I shouldn't think so, but, any way, mother won't let me go there till Winifred has been here."

"There's the clock striking four," exclaimed Jack joyfully; "mother'll be in in a few minutes now. Why don't you light the gas stove, Betty, and get her slippers nice and warm? She'll be so tired and wet."

"I will," said Betty, springing up with alacrity; "and I'll make her a cup of tea, too; she'll like that." And away bustled the little housewife, disappointment and vexation alike forgotten in the pleasant prospect of making mother comfortable.

She had scarcely finished her preparations, and the kettle was just beginning to boil, when the familiar ring was heard, and she flew to open the door.

Jack was quite correct in his predictions; Mrs. Randall was both wet and tired. Indeed, she came in looking so much more tired than usual that Betty noticed it, and inquired anxiously as she hung up the dripping umbrella, and helped her mother off with her waterproof, "Have you got a headache, mother, dear?"

"Yes, dear, I have a bad headache. My cold is rather bad, too; I have been coughing a great deal to-day. Is Jack all right?"

"Oh, yes; he ate a good lunch, and was reading all the morning, and drawing pictures all the afternoon."

"How chilly it feels here," Mrs. Randall said, shivering and coughing as she spoke.

"I've lighted the stove, and your slippers are nice and warm," said Betty proudly. "The kettle's boiling too, and I'll have a nice cup of tea for you in five minutes."

Mrs. Randall's tired face brightened, and she looked rather relieved.

"That is good," she said. "Hurry as quickly as you can with the tea, dear, for I believe I am really chilled through."

Betty, nothing loath, flew about like a small whirlwind; had her mother's wet shoes off and the warm slippers in their place; drew the comfortable armchair as near as possible to the steam radiator, and darted away to the kitchen, from whence she returned in a twinkling, with a cup of steaming tea.

Mrs. Randall drank the tea, but though she pronounced it delicious, and declared herself ever so much better, she still shivered, and cowered over the radiator for warmth. Jack watched her anxiously, with a troubled look on his pale little face.

In a little while Mrs. Randall rose.

"I think I will go and lie down," she said, and the children noticed that her voice was very hoarse. "My head is bad, and if I could sleep for half an hour I might be all right. Be sure and call me in time to get dinner, Betty."

"I hope mother isn't going to be ill," said Jack anxiously, when they were once more alone together.

"Oh, I guess not," said cheerful Betty; "she's only got a cold and a headache. She'll be better after she's rested. Let's play a game of lotto."

Jack assented, but though they played several games, and Betty did her best to be entertaining, the troubled expression did not leave his face. Suddenly he stopped short in the middle of a game.

"Hear mother coughing, Betty; she can't be asleep. I wish you'd go and see if she wants anything."

Betty rose promptly, and hurried into the little bedroom. Her mother was lying on her bed, with flushed cheeks and wide-open eyes. At sight of her little girl she smiled faintly.

"I'm getting nice and warm now, dear," she said; "that tea did me so much good. I'm going to get up very soon."

"You look ever so much better," said Betty in a tone of decided relief. "You've got a lovely color in your cheeks."

Mrs. Randall pressed her hand to her forehead, but said nothing, and next moment a violent spasm of coughing shook her from head to foot.

The evening that followed was a decidedly uncomfortable one. Mrs. Randall's cough was very painful, and although she went about as usual, and tried to appear like herself, it was easy to see that every movement cost her an effort. Betty noticed that she scarcely tasted any dinner, and Jack's eyes never left her face. Almost as soon as dinner was over Jack said he was tired, and would like to go to bed. The others soon followed, and by nine o'clock the lights were out, and the little family settled for the night.

But there was little sleep for at least two members of the household. Mrs. Randall coughed incessantly, and tossed from side to side in feverish restlessness. Betty lay with wide-open eyes, and a heavier heart than she had ever known before. It was all very well to assure Jack that there was not much the matter with mother, and that she would surely be all right in the morning. She knew nothing about illness, but she could not help thinking that that dreadful cough and those burning hands meant something more than an every-day cold.

"I am afraid I am disturbing you very much, dear," Mrs. Randall said at last, when the clock struck ten, and a restless movement on Betty's part assured her that the child was still wide awake. "I wish I could be quieter, but this cough——"

"Never mind, mother, I'm not one bit sleepy. I'm really not. Wouldn't you like to have me get you some water or something?"

"No, thank you, darling; I'm afraid it wouldn't do any good, but if you are not asleep I should like to talk to you a little."

Betty took one of the hot hands in both her little cool ones, and patted it gently. After another fit of coughing, her mother went on.

"You are only a little girl, Betty, but you are very sensible, and in many ways seem older than you really are. There are some things that I think you ought to know about, in case anything should ever happen to me."

"But nothing is going to happen, is it, mother?" Betty asked in a rather frightened whisper. They both spoke in whispers, so as not to disturb Jack in the next room.

"No, no, dear, of course not; I only said 'in case.' I am sure I shall be all right in the morning, but if at any time I should be ill, Betty—if anything serious were to happen to me—you and Jack would be all alone."

Betty nestled closer to her mother's side, and softly kissed the hot fingers.

"I sometimes fear, dear, that I have done wrong in not making more friends," Mrs. Randall said, after another fit of coughing. "People would have been kind I dare say, but I have always been so proud and reserved. Some of the families where I teach would have been friendly if I had let them. I almost wish now that I had."

"Mrs. Hamilton is very kind," said Betty eagerly; "and she came to see you."

"Yes, dear, and I liked her too, but I have always so dreaded being patronized. You know, dear, that I haven't always been poor."

"Yes, mother, I know; you were not poor in England."

"I have often told you about my English home, and about your Uncle Jack, and how happy we were together when we were children. I have been thinking a great deal of those times this evening, and all last night I dreamed of Jack."

"He was your twin brother, wasn't he, mother?"

"Yes; and we were everything to each other. Our mother died when we were babies, and our two sisters were much older, almost grown up in fact, while we were still little children. I suppose my father loved us in his way, but he was very stern, and we were all rather afraid of him. Our older sisters were very good to us little ones, but they had their own affairs to think of, and so Jack and I were left a good deal to ourselves. Such merry times as we had—such pranks as we played."

"You mean the time when Uncle Jack rode the wild colt, and the day you climbed the plum tree, and fell and broke your arm," said Betty, glad to have her mother's thoughts turn in this direction, and hopeful of new stories.

"Yes, those and many others, but, Betty dear, I want to talk to you about something else to-night. You have never heard very much about your father, have you, darling?"

"No, mother," said Betty softly; "I know you don't like to talk about him."

"I ought to like it, but I loved him so dearly that for a long time after his death I could not bring myself to mention his name to any one, even my own children."

"Did Uncle Jack love him too?" Betty asked rather timidly; "you said you always liked the same things."

"They never met. Jack was at college when your father first came into our neighborhood. He came to visit at the vicarage; Mr. Marvyn, our vicar, had known his father. By that time both my sisters were married, and as I was often lonely at home when Jack was away, I got into the habit of spending a good many days with the Marvyn girls, who were about my own age. Your father was only a poor artist, but he was very clever, and people said he would make his mark in the world some day. Jack was very fond of sketching himself, and I think that was one reason why I first began to be interested in your father. We used to go off on sketching expeditions together that spring, and we grew to know each other very well. Jack was invited to spend his summer vacation in Switzerland with a party of friends, and he decided to go. It was the first vacation he had not spent with me, and I think I was more hurt and jealous than I had any right to be under the circumstances. I wrote him how I felt, and he, as was only natural, thought me silly, and told me so. That made me angry, and we quarreled for the first time in our lives. It was only a foolish little quarrel, but it kept me from telling him, as I should otherwise have done, how much I was going about with Archie Randall.

"At first my father did not seem to notice how things were going, but I think some one must have warned him, for one day when I came back from a long walk with your father, he called me into his study, and told me he did not wish me to have anything more to do with young Randall, who was only a penniless artist, and not a proper companion for one of his daughters.

"I am not going to tell you about that time, Betty. I was very angry, and I am afraid I did not behave very well towards my father, who was an old man, and who I think really loved me. When he found that I would not obey him, he sent for Archie, and forbade him to see me again. Then all at once your father and I found out how much we cared for each other. He was very honorable. He wanted me to wait for him while he went away and made a name for himself, but I was young and headstrong, and I loved him better than anything else in the world. The end of it was that we ran away, and were married in London by special license."

Betty gasped. This was the most interesting, romantic story she had ever heard.

"And didn't your father ever forgive you?" she questioned breathlessly.

"No, never. He wrote me one letter after my marriage, and only one. He said that I had disgraced my family, and he never wished to see my face again. He said he had changed his will, and that neither I nor my husband should ever inherit a penny of his money."

"And Uncle Jack, was he angry too?"

"He wrote me only once. He was very much grieved, and could not understand how I could have acted as I had done. That was twelve years ago and I have never heard a word from him since.

"We came to America, and after a time your father obtained employment as an illustrator for a publishing firm here in New York. Then you and Jack were born. We were very happy in those days, and if it had not been for my longing to see Jack and know that he forgave me, I should have been quite content. I was too proud to write to him, but kept hoping that something would happen to bring us together again, and that he and my husband might become good friends. Then, six years ago, just as we were beginning to feel that we were really making our way in the world, your father died."

Mrs. Randall paused, and Betty felt the hand she held quiver convulsively, but after a moment's pause she went on again.

"It was a terrible struggle at first. I had never been brought up to support myself, and now I was left alone in the world with two little helpless children to care for. Little Jack was frightfully delicate. The doctors told me that it was only by the very tenderest care that I could hope to save him. Twice I decided to write to my brother Jack. He would help me, I knew. I even wrote the letters, but I tore them up again. I was too proud. I could not ask for help even from him.

"My music was my only talent, and in time I succeeded in procuring pupils. It has been hard work ever since, but I have managed somehow, and you and Jack have never suffered."

"No, indeed, we haven't, mother; we've had lots of good times, and Jack is ever so much stronger than he used to be."

"I know that, and I am very thankful. If I can only keep my health—I have always been very strong. Why, I don't think I have ever been really ill in my life."

A spasm of coughing interrupted Mrs. Randall's words, and it was several minutes before she was able to speak again.

"I don't know why I am telling you all this to-night, Betty, unless it is that I feel so restless and wakeful. If I keep well everything will be all right, but if anything should ever happen—things do happen sometimes you know, darling—if you and Jack are ever left alone in the world, then you must try to find your Uncle Jack. He will be good to you and love you for my sake, I know."

"Where does he live, mother?"

"I don't know where he is now, but a letter sent to the old home would probably reach him. My father has been dead for nearly two years—I saw the notice of his death in an English newspaper—and Jack, as his only son, would naturally inherit everything. My father was a general, you know—General Stanhope. In my desk you will find a letter addressed to John Stanhope, Esq., Stonybrook Grange, Devonshire, England. That is the address of my old home. You must see that it is stamped and posted. I wrote it shortly after my father's death. I thought that I ought to make some provision in case of anything happening to me. In it I have told him everything, and asked him to care for you and Jack. Why, my darling, what are you crying for? I didn't say anything was going to happen. Hush, I hear Jack stirring; I am afraid our talk is disturbing him. Now turn over like a good little girl, and go to sleep. I feel better than I did, and I shall try to go to sleep too."

Betty, much reassured by her mother's words, obeyed as far as turning over was concerned, and soon the only sounds to be heard were the ticking of the clock and Mrs. Randall's heavy breathing. Betty lay awake for some time, thinking over the story she had heard, but she was only a little girl, after all, and before very long her thoughts grew dim and confused; she fell into a doze, and in a few moments more was fast asleep.