ODOUR OF CHRYSANTHEMUMS

woollen shawl--his mother. She was about sixty
years old, pale, with blue eyes, and her face all
wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the door and
turned to her daughter-in-law peevishly.

" Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall
we do ! " she cried.

Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply.

" What is it, mother ? " she said.

The elder woman seated herself on the sofa.

" I don't know, child, I can't tell you ! " -- she
shook her head slowly. Elizabeth sat watching her,
anxious and vexed.

" I don't know," replied the grandmother, sighing
very deeply. " There's no end to my troubles, there
isn't. The things I've gone through, I'm sure it's
enough ---- ! " She wept without wiping her eyes,
the tears running.

" But, mother," interrupted Elizabeth, " what
do you mean ? What is it ? "

The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The
fountains of her tears were stopped by Elizabeth's
directness. She wiped her eyes slowly.

" Poor child ! Eh, you poor thing ! " she moaned.

" I don't know what we're going to do, I don't --
and you as you are -- it's a thing, it is indeed ! "

Elizabeth waited.

" Is he dead ? " she asked, and at the words her
heart swung violently, though she felt a slight flush
of shame at the ultimate extravagance of the ques
tion. Her words sufficiently frightened the old
lady, almost brought her to herself.

" Don't say so, Elizabeth ! We'll hope it's not
as bad as that; no, may the Lord spare us that,