A Ring of Rubies. Meade L. T.

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      “Rose, you’re a brick,” said the poor fellow; and then he turned his face to the wall. I closed the door very softly and went down to the drawing-room where mother sat.

      I went up to her, and took the mending out of her thin, white hands, and bending down kissed her.

      “What is the matter, Rose, my dear?” she said. We were not a family for embraces, and she wondered at this mark of demonstration. When she raised her eyes to my face, she could not restrain a little cry, for with all my efforts I did not absolutely conceal the marks of strong emotion.

      “Mother,” I said, “you must put away your mending for the present.”

      “Why so, my dear? I am particularly anxious to get on with this invisible darning, for I wish to begin to refront Jack’s shirts to-morrow.”

      “The shirts must keep, mother. Jack wants you for something else just now – he is very ill.”

      “Ill? Poor fellow, he did look as if he had a bad headache.”

      “Yes, I think we ought to send for Mr Ray.”

      “What! For the doctor? Because of a headache? Rose, dear, are you getting fanciful?”

      “I trust not, mother, but I really think Jack is ill, and I am afraid it is more than a headache that ails him.”

      “What do you know about illness, child?”

      “Well, mother dear, go up yourself and see.” My mother went softly out of the room. Her light footsteps ascended the creaking stairs. I heard her open Jack’s bedroom door and shut it behind her. In about five minutes she had rejoined me in the drawing-room.