“Now, mother!” exploded Tilly.  Kicking the door open, she marched into the bed-chamber.  An indignant sweep of one arm sent the miscellany of gifts into a rocking-chair; an indignant curve of the other landed the baby on the bed.  Tilly turned on her mother.  “Now, mother, what did you promise—­ Hush! will you?” (The latter part of the sentence a fierce “Aside” to the infant on the bed.) In a second Mrs. Louder’s arms were encircling him, and she was soothing him on her broad shoulder, where I know not how many babies have found comfort.

Jane Louder was a tall woman—­tall and portly.  She had a massive repose about her, a kind of soft dignity; and a stranger would not guess how tender was her heart.  Deprecatingly she looked up at her only child, standing in judgment over her.  Her eyes were fine still, though they had sparkled and wept for more than half a century.  They were not gray, like Tilly’s, but a deep violet, with black eyelashes and eyebrows.  Black, once, had been the hair under the widow’s cap, now streaked with silver; but Jane Louder’s skin was fresh and daintily tinted like her daughter’s, for all its fine wrinkles.  Her voice when she spoke was mellow and slow, with a nervous vibration of apology.  “Never mind, dear,” she said, “I was just reading ’bout the Russians.”

“I knew it!  You promised me you wouldn’t cry about the Russians any more.”

“I know, Tilly, but Alma Brown lent this to me, herself.  There’s a beautiful article in it about ‘The Horrors of Hunger.’  It would make your heart ache!  I wish you would read it, Tilly.”

“No, thank you.  I don’t care to have my heart ache.  I’m not going to read any more horrors about the Russians, or hear them either, if I can help it.  I have to write Mr. Lossing’s letters about them, and that’s enough.  I’ve given all I can afford, and you’ve given more than you can afford; and I helped get up the subscription at the shops.  I’ve done all I could; and now I ain’t going to have my feelings harrowed up any more, when it won’t do me nor the Russians a mite of good.”

“But I cayn’t help it, Tilly.  I cayn’t take any comfort in my meals, thinking of that awful black bread the poor children starve rather than eat; and, Tilly, they ain’t so dirty as some folks think!  I read in a magazine how they have got to bathe twice a week by their religion; and there’s a bath-house in every village.  Tilly, do you know how much money they’ve raised here?”

“Over three thousand.  This town is the greatest town for giving—­ give to the cholera down South, give to Johnstown, give to Grinnell, give to cyclones, give to fires. The Freeman always starts up a subscription, and Mr. Bayard runs the thing, and Mr. Lossing always gives.  Mother, I tell you he makes them hustle when he takes hold.  He’s the chairman here, and he has township chairmen appointed for every township.