Mrs. Falconer was very conscious that her strength was failing fast, though she felt no pain, and detected no disease. Maude's once rosy face was paler and thinner, and Guy had seemed suddenly to become so tall and thin that it startled her to notice it.
She had decided to accept the superintendence of the institution for a three months' trial, and hoped the change would benefit them all; but she could not afford any other, and therefore it must not be thought of.
Mrs. W— was out of town, and there was no one to detect or remedy the state of affairs. The pictures must be finished; the last pound of the half-year's income derived from her pension as the widow of a British officer had been broken into, and the dread of debt fell with its blighting shadow upon her spirit. Still she prayed, and trusted, and worked on; and her son worked too, but in bitterness of heart, and grew more silent and moody. While Maude retired from their presence often because tears would blind her eyes, and fear began to take sad forms in her mind.
But that dearly loved mother's faith, illustrated in the submission, patience, and humility of her life, was a "living epistle," which her children could not but read to their own profit. Never had either of them so realized what she was, or so tenderly loved and valued her. But to see her fade away before their eyes from the effect of circumstances concerning which she was blameless was a very hard, bitter trial.
"Maude," said Guy one morning, "I feel so wicked and so ill, that if the fees were not paid in advance I would not return to school at all. I would rather stay at home and finish that picture."
"Oh, Guy! I do believe if you could get rid of the wickedness, you would of the illness too," said his sister, affectionately. "Do you know, I have felt so much better since I have tried to give up."
"Give up! What do you mean? Haven't I given up too, and done just what I thought our mother wished?"
"Well, I don't know. Perhaps so, Guy, but still it doesn't seem to me quite like giving up, either. You are like the man with the iron collar round his neck, bearing it because he can't help it, and hates it all the while, and feels that he is a martyr to some tyrant's will; there's no nice expression in his poor face."
"Well I'm sure, Maude! Do you mean to say I look like that unhappy wretch you saw in the picture the other day?"
"Not quite, no, no, dear Guy, but you remind me of him; while our mother, whose trouble is so much greater than ours, wears no iron collar, but only just the silken cord of love that binds her in willing subjection to a Father's holy will; and I think her dear face looks more and more like an angel's every day."