“I was thinking of that myself, Ma.  But you seemed so poorly, that I did not feel like saying anything about it just now.”

“O yes.  Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, by all means.  It will take that much off of poor Ellen’s hands.”

“Then I will do so, Ma; at least if Ellen is willing,” Mary said, in a lighter tone—­the idea of even that relief being extended to her overburdened sister causing her mind to rise in a momentary buoyancy.

“Anna is late to-night,” she remarked, after a pause of a few moments.

As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of whom she spoke entered.

“You are late to-night, Anna,” her mother said.

“Yes, rather later than usual.  I had to take a few small articles home for a lady, after I left the store, who lives in Sixth near Spring Garden.”

“In Sixth near Spring Garden!”

“Yes.  The lad who takes home goods had gone, and the lady was particular about having them sent home this evening.”

“Do you not feel very tired?”

“Indeed I do,” the poor girl said, sinking into a chair.  “I feel, sometimes, as if I must give up.  No one in our store is allowed to sit down from morning till night.  The other girls don’t appear to mind it much; but before evening, it seems as if I must drop to the floor.  But I won’t complain,” she added, endeavouring to rally herself, and put on a cheerful countenance.  “How have you been to-day, Ma?”

“If you won’t complain, I am sure that I have no right to, Anna.”

“You cannot be happy, of course, Ma; that I know too well.  None of us, I fear, will ever be again happy in this world!” Anna said, in a tone of despondency, her spirits again sinking.

No one replied to this; and a gloomy silence of many minutes followed—­a quiet almost as oppressive as the stillness that reigns in the chamber of death.  Then Mary commenced busying herself about the evening meal.

“Tea is ready, Ma and Anna,” she at length said, after their frugal repast had been placed upon the table.

“Has not Alfred returned yet?” Anna asked.

“No,” was the brief answer.

“Hadn’t we better wait for him?”

“He knows that it is tea-time, and ought to be here, if he wants any,” the mother said.  “You are tired and hungry, and we will not, of course, wait.”

The little family, three in number, gathered around the table, but no one eat with an appetite of the food that was placed before them.  There were two vacant places at the board.  The husband and son—­the father and brother—­where were they?

In regard to the former, the presentation of a scene which occurred a few weeks previous will explain all.  First, however, a brief review of the past seven years is necessary.  After Mr. Graham’s failure in business, he gave himself up to drink, and sunk, with his whole family, down into want and obscurity with almost unprecedented rapidity.  He seemed at once to become strangely indifferent to his wife and children—­to lose all regard for their welfare.  In fact, he had become, in a degree, insane from the sudden reverses which had overtaken him, combined with the bewildering effects of strong drinks, under whose influence he was constantly labouring.