My sister is down with one of the headaches against which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who bears physical pain as if it were a comrade, is most woebegone when her daughter is the sufferer.

'And she winna let me go down the stair to make a cup of tea for her,' she groans.
'I will soon make the tea, mother.' 'Will you ?' she says eagerly.

It is what she has come to me for, but 'It is a pity to rouse you,' she says.
'And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light the fires and wash the dishes--' 'Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an author.' 'It won't be the first time, mother, since I was an author.' 'More like the fiftieth!' she says almost gleefully, so I have begun well, for to keep up her spirits is the great thing to-day.
Knock at the door.

It is the baker.

I take in the bread, looking so sternly at him that he dare not smile.
Knock at the door.