He paused a moment. Meg was pale, and seemed a little dazed; but the excitement had left her manner.
"Everything," he repeated with emphasis.
The child's bosom heaved.
"Now that she is dead," resumed the young man, "I believe that dear mother watches over her little daughter."
"You believe it," said Meg slowly.
"I believe it," said Mr. Standish. "But, come; where is that picture? Let me look at it again."
Meg was off and back again in a moment. The print was torn and besmeared, as if it had gone through rough usage since he had seen it last.
"Halloo! it is falling to bits. It was not so crumpled and torn the other day," he remarked.
"No," Meg confessed; "I hated it the other night, when you said mother was hard-working, like a charwoman. I wanted to tear it up—I did; but I could not." She stopped; for the first time there came a choking in her throat, and a sob, quickly repressed.
Mr. Standish pretended absorption in his occupation, spread out the tattered print, and announced his intention of bestowing to the painting a new lease of life by pasting it upon a pasteboard back. He gathered the necessary implements for the task. Meg, usually so active, watched in silence; but he knew, by the trembling of the little hand resting on the table, by the stiff uprightness of the small figure beside him, the fierce battle the child was waging with herself to suppress all show of emotion.