Mrs. Liddell was cruelly disappointed.  She had hoped and expected much from her boy.  She believed he was doing so well!  She told all to Katie, who heartily agreed with her that Fred must be helped.  Some of their slender capital was sold out and sent to him, while mother and daughter cheerfully accepted the loss of many trifling indulgences, drawing the narrow limits of their expenditure closer still, content and free from debt, though as time went on Katherine cast many a longing glance at the world of social enjoyment in which their poverty forbade her to triumph.

Mrs. Liddell had always loved literature, and her husband had been an accomplished though a reckless and self-indulgent man.  She had wandered a good deal with him, and had seen a great variety of people and places.  It occurred to her to try her pen as a means of adding to her income, and after some failures she succeeded with one or two of the smaller weekly periodicals.  This induced her to return to London, hoping to do better in that great centre of work.  Here the tidings of her son’s death overwhelmed her.  Next came an imploring letter from the young widow, who had no near relatives, praying to be allowed to live with her and Katherine—­sharing expenses—­as the pension to which an officer’s widow and orphans were entitled insured her a small provision.

So Mrs. Liddell again roused herself, and managed to furnish very scantily the little home where Katherine sat thinking.  But the addition to their income was but meagre compared to the expenses which followed in the train of Mrs Frederic Liddell and her two “little Indian boys.”

All the efforts of the practical mother and daughter did not suffice to keep within the limits they dreaded to overpass.  Mrs. Liddell’s pen became more than ever essential to the maintenance of the household, while the younger widow considered herself a martyr to the most sordid, the most unnecessary stinginess.

A tapping at the door and suppressed childish laughter called Katherine from her thoughts.  She rose and opened the door quickly and softly.

“Hush, Cecil! be quiet, Charlie! poor grannie is asleep.  Come with me downstairs; I will read to you if you like.”

“Oh yes, do,” said Charlie.

“I don’t care for reading,” cried Cecil.  “Can’t you play bears?”

“It makes too much noise.  I will play it to-morrow if grandmamma is better.  Shall I tell you a story?”

“No,” said Cecil; “I will tell you one.”

“Very well.  I shall be delighted to hear it.”

“I would rather have you read, auntie,” said the little one.

“Never mind, Charlie; I will read to you after.”

“Shall we sit in the garden?  We have made it quite clean and tidy.”

“No, dear; grannie would hear us there.  Come into the dining-room.”