"MOTHER! mother!" said little Angel, in the middle of the night, creeping over to the bed where her father and mother were asleep. "Mother, mother, there's a loud knock at our door!"
"Bless you, child," said the mother, "you're dreaming. Your father's been in long since. Go to bed again."
"No, mother, listen; there it is again."
This time Mrs. Blyth heard it, and even Mr. Blyth opened his eyes, and said, "What's that?"
Some one was knocking at the door as loudly as he could. Mrs. Blyth put on some clothes, lighted a candle, and went down stairs to see what it was.
When she came back her face was very white indeed. "Oh, Angel," she said, "it's Tim; his mother's dead! She went to bed quite well, and then Mr. Carter woke and heard her groaning, and she was dead in two minutes—before he could call anybody."
"Oh, mother," said little Angel, trembling, "how dreadful! She was washing all day yesterday, and I saw her put the shutters up just before I came to bed."
"Yes," said Mrs. Blyth; "I'm sure it's made me feel quite sick. I must go over and help them a bit, poor things."
Angel could not sleep any more that night. She lay awake thinking of poor Tim, who had no mother, and wondering if Mrs. Carter were in heaven with the angels. When her mother came back it was time to get up. Mrs. Blyth had been crying very much, and she went about her work almost without uttering a word.
But when she and Angel were turning the mangle, she said—