A Tale of a Penny by Ruth Lamb

WHEN the sisters arrived at home they were doubly thankful that they had lost no time in setting out. They found Mrs. Northcote's illness was of a much more serious character than the letter had led them to anticipate. The filial love and self-devotion of both the girls would be tested to the utmost, and it must be owned that Mr. Northcote and his sons doubted much whether these qualities in Edith's case would stand the strain.

But soon all who were in the house, and none more than the invalid mother, became sensible of the change that had begun in the elder daughter. Perhaps nothing tries the mettle that the young are made of more than sickness in a house. When not actually engaged in attendance on the sufferer, there is the unnatural quiet in the home, the necessity for excluding visitors, abstaining from outdoor social intercourse, and the impossibility of indulging in the usual merry games. The burst of song which springs to the young lips must be hushed, the piano remain closed, for fear of disturbing the invalid. Even the innocent jest, which might provoke a laugh, is suppressed; because laughter has a heartless sound when pain shuts out those we love from sharing in it.