“I can’t bear to have Aggy away from me.  She rarely annoys me.  A dear, good child—­yet only a child, for whom only a mother can think wisely.  She rarely leaves my room that she doesn’t get into some trouble; but my presence quickly restores the sunshine.”

The bell rings.  There is a murmur of voices below; and now light feet come tripping up the stairs.  The door opens and two little girls enter, just from school.  Does the sick mother put up her hand to enjoin silence?  Does she repel them,—­by look or word?  Oh no.

“Well, Mary—­well, Anna?” she says, kindly.  They bend over and kiss her gently and lovingly; then speak modestly to the visitor.

“How do you feel, mother?” asks the oldest of the two girls.  “Does your head ache?”

“Not now, dear.  It ached a little while ago; but it is better now.”

“What made it ache, mother?”

“Something troubled Aggy, and her crying sent a pain through my temples.  But it went away with the clouds that passed from her darling little face.”

“Why, she’s asleep, mother!” exclaimed Anna.

“So she is.  Dear little lamb!  Asleep with a tear on her cheek.  Turn her crib around, love, so that I can lay her in it.”

“No, you mustn’t lift her,” says Mary.  “It will make your head ache.”  And the elder of the children lifts her baby-sister in her arms, and carefully lays her in the crib.

“Did you say all your lessons correctly this morning?” now asks the mother.

“I didn’t miss a word,” answers Mary.

“Nor I,” says Anna.

“I’m glad of it.  It always does me good to know that you have said your lessons well.  Now go and take a run in the yard for exercise.”

The little girls leave the chamber, and soon their happy voices came ringing up from the yard.  The sound is loud, the children in their merry mood unconscious of the noise they make.

“This is too loud.  It will make your head ache,” we say, making a motion to rise, as if going to check the exuberance of their spirits.

“Oh no,” is answered with a smile.  “The happy voices of my children never disturb me.  Were it the sound of wrangling, my weak head would throb instantly with pain.  But this comes to me like music.  They have been confined for hours in school, and health needs a reaction.  Every buoyant laugh or glad exclamation expands their lungs, quickens the blood in their veins, and gives a measure of health to mind as well as body.  The knowledge of this brings to me a sense of pleasure; and it is better for me, therefore, that they should be gay and noisy for a time, after coming out of school, than it would be if they sat down quietly in the house, or moved about stealthily, speaking to each other in low tones lest I should be disturbed.”

We could not say nay to this.  It was true, because unselfish, philosophy.

“Doesn’t that hammering annoy you?” we ask.