4 THE ACORN wrote of going to visit her, but she almost plead for us not to spend the time and money. So we could do nothing but wait, hoping against hope that all might come as she said that she would soon come herself. Six years had elapsed since we last saw Celia and almost six months since we had heard from her. That Mother was failing I could plainly see. Although my position had been changed to my home town, I felt that all I could do was insufficient to bring back her health and to ease that longing which was ever gnawing at her heart for her youngest child. "O, Celia, Celia," she would moan often, in her sleep. "I thought you were never coming" and I knew she was dreaming of my sister. She was growing weaker and weaker and I, at last, determined to go myself and bring the child home and surprise Mother. "Madge don't leave me alone" she cried, and so I could only write and wait as before to see if an answer would come. November was ushered in with noisy , blustering winds and Mother was now unable to leave her bed. She was gradually sinking and at last lay, for the greater part of the time, in a stupor, only rousing enough to murmur one word, "Celia." Thanksgiving day came in a whirling snow storm. A very dismal day, at the most, it was, to us who were watching a battle between life and death. The hours dragged, only too fast, for as the day wore on a poor sunken form before us, (getting nearer and nearer the dreadful end we all knew to be very near oh it was too, too near, little mother) called pathetically "we thought you were not coming. It was such a long time, my baby, my Celia." No sound could be heard but the crashing of the storm without, the ticking of the clock on the mantle (how loudly a clock ticks when one is watching and waiting for the crisis) and that plaintive wail from within as we watched and waited. No one heard the door open or saw the startled face of one standing in the doorway, until the roaring, furious wind with his chilling breath came creeping upon us. We had scarcely turned before Celia had thrown herself down beside Mother's bed, convulsively clutching at the counterpane and wildly calling herself Mother's murderer. "Now come away, dearie," I begged, "get off "your wet garments and warm yourself. Mother will wake in a little while, perhaps, and find you sitting by her side." "No, she will never wake. I've killed her, my poor little mother," she wailed, wringing her hands. "I've let my wicked, wicked pride kill my poor, dear, little mother. I shall never forgive myself, never." "Come, come," I cried, "This THE ACORN 5 will never do. Don't you know mother cannot stand this sort of thing? Yon must be cheerful and only let her know you've come." By degrees we got her calmed down and seeing how much depended upon her, she sat patiently by where Mother should see her first. We were not really surprised to hear her say: "Oh Celia, I've been dreaming that you were away and I was never to see you again, but you were here by my side, my darling, my baby." "Yes, Mother," she said quickly, "and I shall never leave you, never" and Mother never learned for a week or more that her delusion had been only too real. No one had thought or noticed at first, how changed Celia was, and as for Mother, she never did see it, at least, until months afterward. To me Celia first confided her story, for Mother was much too weak to hear it then. All had been bright at first, until another, becoming jealous of her praise, had caused a little prejudice and coldness to grow up between the Madame and her favorite. Celia upon discovering it, packed her cases, palettes and brushes and started out for herself. Her poor, little thin face and sombre brown eyes plainly told how hard the struggle had been, but brave little thing, she never dreamed of giving up, and pride sustained her, for had she not flung at her rival the parting words: "I will succeed, Anne Johnson, in spite of your lies!" Fate had been against her and she was compelled to give up her studio and remove her things to her rooms. Then things went from bad to worse. The nervous strain had thrown her into a fever which took full possession of her weak, worn-out, little body. She was just on the point of auctioning, raffling or going from house to house with her pictures when the last letter arrived telling of Mother's serious illness. Hastily taking one of the best pictures, she hurried out. Meeting a gentleman, a patron of Madame Tresseau's, she begged him to buy it, asking merely enough to bring her safely home. Fearing a refusal, she thrust the letter into his hand and was overjoyed to receive the desired amount. On reaching her apartment, she left the landlady in charge of her things with her pictures as security, and in less than an hour was speeding home to Mother. Nothing at all eventful had occurred since her return. Winter had come early and on every side great snow drifts lay piled against hedges and other obstacles encountered. Celia had been devoting her time to Mother, and it pleased us both to see how much comfort Mother took in having her near. She had nothing to grieve over now. On Christmas eve we had just settled down into our "blessed hour" as Celia called it, when