"I've been scolding Mabel and Jean for talking in bed," she said, "and now I hear you two at it."
"Oh, mummy," replied Elma, "I'm so glad you've come. You don't know how empty and dreadful we feel. We never thought before of Cuthbert's dying. And Betty says you and papa might die--and none of us could p--possibly bear to live."
She began to cry gently at last.
"I can't have four girls in one house all crying," said Mrs. Leighton; "I really can't stand it, you know."
"What--are Mabel and Jean crying?" asked Elma tearfully, yet hopefully. "Well, that's one comfort anyway."
Mrs. Leighton sat down by their bed. Long years afterwards Elma remembered the tones of her mother's voice, and the quiet wonderful peace that entered her own mind at the confident words which Mrs. Leighton spoke to them then.
"I thought you might be feeling like that," she said; "I did once also, long ago, when my father turned very ill, until I learned what I'm going to tell you now. We aren't here just to enjoy ourselves, or that would be an easy business, would it not? We are here to get what Cuthbert calls a few kicks now and again, to suffer a little, above all to remember that our father or our mother isn't the only loving parent we possess. What is the use of being taught to be devoted to goodness and truth, if one doesn't believe that goodness and truth are higher than anything, higher than human trouble? If you lost Cuthbert or me or papa, there is always that strong presence ready to hold you."
"Oh, mummy," sobbed Betty, "there seems nothing like holding your hand."
Mrs. Leighton stroked Betty's very softly.
"Would you like a little piece of news?" she asked.