There was one; and as often happens it had grown out of the family’s greatest delight.  Winifred was not the Winifred of former days.  The rosy-cheeked, fat, laughing little roll-about of five years old, had changed by degrees into a slim, pale, very delicate-looking child of twelve.  Great nervous irritability, and weakness, they feared of the spine, had displaced the jocund health and sweet spirits which never knew a cloud.  It was a burden to them all, the change; and yet —­ so strangely things are tempered —­ the affections mustered round the family hearth to hide or repair the damage disease had done there, till it could scarcely be said to be poorer or worse off than before.  There did come a pang to every heart but Winifred’s own, when they looked upon her; but with that rose so sweet and rare charities, blessing both the giver and the receiver, that neither perhaps was less blessed than of old.  Winthrop’s face never shewed that there was anything at home to trouble him, unless at times when Winifred was not near; his voice never changed from its cool cheerfulness; and yet his voice had a great deal to say to her, and his face Winifred lived upon all the while he was at home.  He never seemed to know that she was weaker than she used to be; but his arm was always round her, or it might be under her, whenever need was; and to be helped by his strength was more pleasant to Winifred than to have strength of her own.

She was sitting on his knee one day, and they were picking out nuts together; when she looked up and spoke, as if the words could not be kept in.

“What shall I do when you are gone!”

“Help mother, and keep Asahel in spirits.”

Winifred could not help laughing a little at this idea.

“I wonder if anything could trouble Asahel much,” she said.

“I suppose he has his weak point —­ like the rest of us,” said Winthrop.

“You haven’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know, but I think so,” said Winifred, touching her hand to his cheek, and then kissing him.

“What’s your weak point?”

“They’re all over,” said Winifred, with a little change of voice; “I haven’t a bit of strength about anything.  I don’t think anybody’s weak but me.”

“Nobody ought to be weak but you,” said her brother, with no change in his.

“I oughtn’t to be weak,” said Winifred; “but I can’t help it.”

“It doesn’t matter, Winnie,” said her brother; “you shall have the advantage of the strength of all the rest.”

“That wouldn’t be enough,” said Winifred, gently leaning her head upon the broad breast which she knew was hers for strength and defence.

“Not, Winnie? —­ What will you have?”

“I’ll have the Bible,” said the child, her thin intelligent face looking at him with all its intelligence.

“The Bible, Winnie?” said Winthrop cheerfully.