"O mother, mother, whatever shall we do?" cried the girl in a broken whisper, and with a burst of tears.
Mrs. Keith had a small Bible in her hand, her finger between the leaves. She laid it open before Mildred, pointed to a passage in the sixty-second psalm, and just touching her lips to her daughter's forehead, turned away to the little sufferers on the bed.
"Mother's darlings! mother's poor little men! Try to be very patient and good like the dear Lord Jesus when he was in pain, and mother hopes you will soon be well again. She is asking Jesus to make you well."
"I wish he would," moaned Cyril, while; Don uttered some incoherent words, showing that his mind wandered.
"I'se better, mamma," piped the baby voice of Annis from another bed. "Fan and me's better. I dess Dod will make us well, 'tause we asked him to."
"Yes, mother, don't fret about us," joined in Fan and Zillah patiently.
She went over and kissed all three, calling them "dear good children," then passed on into the kitchen.
Rupert was there trying to make a custard; Ada washing dishes.
"You see you're not entirely without help in this department yet, mother," the lad said laughingly.
"No," she answered with a smile that he felt was ample reward for his efforts, "how are you succeeding?"