Ruth returned to the house with her cool refreshment, and taking one of the best goblets from the pantry, gave an extra polish with a fresh towel, and filled it with the water, "because it would taste so much better out of that."
"I thank thee, deary. How good it looks!" said the invalid, drinking eagerly. "Thee takes a deal of trouble for thy mother."
"And why shouldn't I? Thee is the best of mothers," responded the girl, tenderly hugging her.
Ruth now began to busy herself about the room. She wheeled out a big arm-chair by the window, padded it out with pillows into comfortable proportions, placed in front of it a little stuffed cricket, and threw a large soft shawl over the whole arrangement. She then gathered up all the stray dishes, placed everything in order, and carefully dusted the room.
A pair of loving eyes watched these operations, following every motion; but not a word was spoken, not a word of the doctor's decision, not a word of the life-long suffering in store.
"Now, mother," said Ruth at last, pausing in front of her, "we'll have thee up in a twinkling;" and with one strong motion she quickly lifted the slender form, so light in its best days, and so reduced by pain and suffering now, into the chair.
When she had settled her comfortably, and arranged the blinds so as to make a pleasant shade in the room, she brought the mate to the little stuffed cricket, and sat at her mother's side.
"What is it, daughter?—what troubles thee?"
"Oh! a great many things, mother," answered Ruth, laying her head on the sympathetic breast.
"Well, suppose thee tell mother the greatest trouble, and then the second, until thy mind is unburdened?" and the soft hands gently smoothed the brown hair.