Mr. Jocelyn sighed more deeply than ever, and, indeed, appeared so overcome for a few moments that he could not speak.  At last he faltered, “I have all of a Southern man’s pride, and it’s more bitter than death to me that my wife and daughters must work for their bread.”

“Papa,” exclaimed Mildred, “would it not be infinitely more bitter to us all to eat the bread of charity?  I shall pretend to no unnatural heroism, nor say I like toil and poverty.  On the contrary, I think I shrink from such things more than most girls do.  But I don’t propose to sit down and wring my hands.  I can put them to a better use.  We must just put away all talk of pride and sentiment, and remember only our poverty and self-respect.  As Christian and sensible people we are bound to accept of our life and make the best of it.  You and mother both know how much this change has cost me,” she concluded, with a few half-stifled sobs, “and if I am willing to enter on a cheerful, patient effort to make the best of life as it is, I think all the rest might, too.  If we give way to despondency we are lost.  Let us be together again, and pull together as one.”

“The idea of Nan and the children coming back to the city in August!” said Mr. Jocelyn dejectedly.  “You don’t either of you realize what you are talking about.  We should have to go into a tenement-house.”

“Martin, I do realize it,” replied his wife earnestly.  “The country is doing me no good—­indeed I’m failing in health.  Nothing does us good when we are unhappy and anxious.  Find me two rooms in a tenement-house if we cannot afford more, and let us be together as soon as possible.”

“Well,” said Mr. Jocelyn, after a long breath, “with such a wife and such children to work for a man ought to be able to do great things; but it’s much the same as it was in the army—­if one lost his place in the ranks he was hustled about in everybody’s way, and if weak and disabled he was left to his fate.  The world goes right on and over you if you don’t stand aside.  I know you’ve suffered, Nan, and you know that if I had my wish you would never have a care or a pain; but God knows I suffered too.  After you all were gone and my duties to my former partners ceased, I began to learn from experience how difficult it is in these cursed times to get a foothold, and I became almost sleepless from anxiety.  Then set in that villanous neuralgia, which always strikes a man when he’s down,’ and for a week or more it seemed that I should almost lose my reason.

“Oh, Martin, Martin!” his wife exclaimed reproachfully, “and you did not let us know!”

“Why should I?  It would only have added to your burden, and would not have helped me.  I was glad you knew nothing about it.”

“This is another proof that we must be together,” said his wife, her eyes filling with tears.  “How did you come to get better?”

“Oh, the doctor gave me something that made me sleep, and I seldom have neuralgia now.”