"How on earth I am to live here, Lucy Hurst, I don't know."

"What is it, Tom?" inquired she, forgetting her own troubles in
sympathy for him.

"Oh, Uncle Josh, that's all. He hasn't any patience with me, and
makes me speak up impertinently to him. And the things they say about
mamma are perfectly shameful. I won't bear it now, I won't."

His sister's gentle hand touched his lips to stem the passionate
words.

"You remember, Tom," she said softly, "what mamma said to us. We were
to endure all such little trials, remembering that it is God who
sends them. Think how grieved she would be if she could hear us
grumbling so soon."

"I don't care; I can't help it," said the boy recklessly. "It isn't
anything for you to be good, Lucy; you are just like mamma--a kind of
saint, I think. For me it is just a long battle all day. If a fellow
conquered in the end, it would not matter; but as it is--O Lucy,
Lucy! why did mamma die? It was so easy to be happy and good when we
had her to love and help us. I wish I were dead too."

Poor, proud, passionate Tom! His sister could only put her gentle arm
about his neck and cry too, her heart so sorely re-echoed the painful
longing in his voice.

So the first day at Thankful Rest did not promise very brightly for
Tom and Lucy Hurst.