"I think he's very kind, and all that; but I don't think he's happy: often and often when I look up, I see him looking at me with his eyes full of tears. Isn't it odd and queer for a man to cry. Father never cried."
Mrs. Shipton did not answer; why should the child know of all the bitter tears which her father had shed?
"Perhaps Mr. Smith has some trouble that we do not know of, dear."
"I think he has, mother; but wasn't it kind of him to get that bottle of wine for Maurice?"
"Yes; poor little Maurice! Ellen, I sometimes think—," and the mother's voice trembled.
"What, mother?"
"I think he's going from me too;" and the poor woman put down her work, and bowed her head in her hands.
Little Ellen came up close to her mother, and slipping her arm round her neck, laid her face close to hers, and whispered, "Mother, mother, don't cry—God will take care of Maurice; he won't let him die."
"I think sometimes that he will, he is so like poor father, and he seems so delicate and weakly, and I have no means of getting him the strengthening things he needs."
"But, mother, he is better than he was."