The elders did their best

　　The elders did their best, but Uncle Mac was a busy man, AuntJane's reading was of a funereal sort, impossible to listen to long,and the other aunties were all absorbed in their own cares, thoughthey supplied the boy with every delicacy they could invent.
　　Uncle Alec was a host in himself, but he could not give all his timeto the invalid; and if it had not been for Rose, the afflicted Wormwould have fared ill. Her pleasant voice suited him, her patiencewas unfailing, her time of no apparent value, and her eagergood-will was very comforting.
　　The womanly power of self-devotion was strong in the child, andshe remained faithfully at her post when all the rest dropped away.
　　Hour after hour she sat in the dusky room, with one ray of light onher book, reading to the boy, who lay with shaded eyes silentlyenjoying the only pleasure that lightened the weary days.
　　Sometimes he was peevish and hard to please, sometimes hegrowled because his reader could not manage the dry books hewished to hear, and sometimes he was so despondent that her heartached to see him. Through all these trials Rose persevered, usingall her little arts to please him. When he fretted, she was patient;when he growled, she ploughed bravely through the hard pages notdry to her in one sense, for quiet tears dropped on them now andthen; and when Mac fell into a despairing mood, she comfortedhim with every hopeful word she dared to offer.
　　He said little, but she knew he was grateful, for she suited himbetter than anyone else. If she was late, he was impatient; whenshe had to go, he seemed forlorn; and when the tired head achedworst, she could always soothe him to sleep, crooning the oldsongs her father used to love.
　　"I don't know what I should do without that child," Aunt Jane oftensaid.
　　"She's worth all those racketing fellows put together," Mac wouldadd, fumbling about to discover if the little chair was ready for hercoming.
　　That was the sort of reward Rose liked, the thanks that cheeredher; and whenever she grew very tired, one look at the greenshade, the curly head so restless on the pillow, and the poorgroping hands, touched her tender heart and put new spirit into theweary voice.
　　She did not know how much she was learning, both from thebooks she read and the daily sacrifices she made. Stories andpoetry were her delight, but Mac did not care for them; and sincehis favourite Greeks and Romans were forbidden, he satisfiedhimself with travels, biographies, and the history of greatinventions or discoveries. Rose despised this taste at first, but soongot interested in Livingstone's adventures, Hobson's stirring life inIndia, and the brave trials and triumphs of Watt and Arkwright,Fulton, and "Palissy, the Potter." The true, strong books helped thedreamy girl; her faithful service and sweet patience touched andwon the boy; and long afterward both learned to see how usefulthose seemingly hard and weary hours had been to them.
　　One bright morning, as Rose sat down to begin a fat volumeentitled "History of the French Revolution," expecting to come togreat grief over the long names, Mac, who was lumbering aboutthe room like a blind bear, stopped her by asking abruptly"What day of the month is it?""The seventh of August, I believe.""More than half my vacation gone, and I've only had a week of it! Icall that hard," and he groaned dismally.