"Father is very sick."
"Oh, I am so sorry! What is the matter? When was he taken ill? Was it suddenly?"
"Yes and no," said Ruth, answering simply the last question put by Flora. "He was compelled to stop work yesterday, and come home. He has been in poor health for a long time. I have been afraid, for quite a while, that he would break down."
"The doctor does not think he will die, does he?" whispered Flora, in an awed tone.
"Yes, he does," said Ruth, as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.
The two girls, with their arms entwined, and a deep tenderness in their voices, then went into the little kitchen, where Jem sat, holding her beloved kitten close to her for comfort.
"Yes, the doctor says that he cannot last long. But what bothers me is, there seems to be something on his mind, and I can see he is worried."
"What about? Do you know?" asked Flora, sympathizingly.
"Well, I can guess," Ruth answered, taking from a work-basket a stocking of Jem's, and beginning to darn it in an abstracted, mechanical way.
"You see," she continued, "father married my mother—my own mother, I mean—against her parents' wishes—she was young—and he never would be reconciled to them, because they had objected to him. Neither would he allow them to have anything to do with each other afterward. He was very stern, and it all made mother so unhappy it just broke her heart, I am sure. She died when I was very small. He has told me, since Jem's mamma died, he wished he had tried to pacify my grandparents. But he had moved far away from them, and now, if he should die, he has nobody with whom to leave Jem and me. But he was always so proud; and now we shall be all alone," and she gave a sorrowful little sigh.