Unconsciously there ran through her mind one of the foolish bits of poetry she had been fond of when a girl: _"In the unruffled shelter of thy love, My bark leaped homeward from a stormy sea, And furled its sails, and, like a nested dove--"_ "Mother!" called out Arthur's feeble, fretful voice, and in a minute the poetry had all gone out of her head, and she was by her boy's side, feeding him, jesting with him, and planning how the first day of his convalescence should be celebrated by a grand festival, inviting the two others to tea in his room.

It was her own room, from which he had never been moved since the first night.

How familiar had grown the crimson sofa, the tall mirror, the carved oaken wardrobe! The bride had regarded these splendors with a wondering half-uneasy gratitude; but now, to Arthur's nurse and "mother," they looked pleasant, home- like, and dear.
"We will pull the sofa to the fire.

Help, papa, please, and place the little table before it.

And we will send written invitations which papa shall deliver, with a postman's knock, at the nursery door.