CHAPTER XVI.
The Homing Pigeon "A millstone and the human heart, Are ever driven round, And if they've nothing else to grind, They must themselves be ground." It seemed to me that my mother was the person who really could have been excused for having heart trouble.

The more I watched her, the more I wondered that she didn't.

There was her own life, the one she and father led, where everything went exactly as she wanted it to; and if there had been only themselves to think of, no people on earth could have lived happier, unless the pain she sometimes suffered made them trouble, and I don't think it would, for neither of them were to blame for that.

They couldn't help it.

They just had it to stand, and fight the stiffest they could to cure it, and mother always said she was better; every single time any one asked, she was better.