HARRY TENDING HIS MOTHER.
“Where is Paul?” said Mrs. Fane with uneasiness. “I am always anxious about that dear boy. I do trust that he has not ventured upon the ice.”
“I believe, mother, that the ice has been considered safe, quite safe, for the last three days.”
“You know nothing about the matter,” cried the fretful invalid. “I had a cousin drowned once in that lake when every one said that there was no danger. I have forbidden you both a thousand times to go near the ice;” and she gave her son a look of displeasure, as though he had been the one to break her command.
“Will you not take your gruel now?” said Harry, again drawing her attention to it, and placing yet closer to her that which he had so carefully made.
“I do not like it—it’s cold—it’s full of lumps; you never do anything well!”
“I must try and improve,” said her son, struggling to look cheerful, but feeling the task rather hard. “If you will not take this, shall I get you a little tea?”
Mrs. Fane assented with a discontented air, and Harry instantly proceeded to make some; while all the time that he was thus engaged his poor mother continued in a tone of anxiety and sorrow to express her fears for her elder son.
“Are you more comfortable now, dear mother?” said Harry, after she had partaken of her nice cup of tea. Her only reply was a moan. “Can I do anything else for you?—yes, I see; the top of that blind hangs loose, and the light comes in on your eyes; I will set it right in a minute!” and he jumped lightly on a chair to reach it.