"Thank you, Aunt Hepsy," said Lucy gently. "I'd rather work, if you
please. It takes up my mind better. Let me wash these dishes."

Aunt Hepsy surmised the tears were kept for the loneliness of her own
chamber. She was right. Only to her mother's God did Lucy Hurst pour
out all her grief, and from Him sought the help and comfort none can
give so well as He.



XII.

WEARY DAYS.

The unusual softening of heart and manner visible in Aunt Hepsy at
the time of Tom's departure disappeared before the lapse of many
days. You see, she had gone on in the old, sour, cross-grained way so
long, she felt most at home in it. She did not _feel_ unkindly
towards gentle, patient Lucy; but her manner was so ungracious, and
her words so sharp, you will not wonder that Lucy could not read
beneath the surface. She was very quiet, very sober, and very
listless; striving, too, to do her duties as well as aforetime, but
lacking physical strength. Tom's letters, frequent and full of hope
and happiness, were the chief solace of the girl's lonely life. Mr.
and Miss Goldthwaite came sometimes yet to Thankful Rest; but these
were family visits, and Lucy had few opportunities of quiet talk with
her friends. Many invitations had come from the Red House, but to
each and all Aunt Hepsy returned a peremptory refusal.