share them with her. She looked
very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me. When I bade her
good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go.
What words she whispered to me--so loving that I have never forgotten
them, and never shall while my memory lives. Twice she called me back
when I had reached the door to say good-night again--twice I went back
and kissed the pale, sweet face. It was very pale the last time, and I
was frightened.

"Mamma, darling," I asked, "are you very ill?"

"Why, Laura?" she questioned.

"Because you look so pale, and you are always lying here. You never move
about or dance and play as you used to do."

"But I will, Laura. You will see, the very first game we play at hare
and hounds I shall beat you. God bless my darling child!"

That night seemed to me very strange. There was no rest and no silence.
What could every one be doing? I heard the opening and closing of the
doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night. I heard the
galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door. I thank Heaven
even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my
mother. Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no
nurse to dress me. I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face
pale, her eyes swollen with tears.

"What has been the matter?" I cried. "Oh, Emma, what a strange night it
has been! I have heard all kinds of noises. Has anything been wrong?"

"No, my dear," she replied.

But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me.

"Emma, you should not tell stories!" I cried, so vehemently that she was
startled. "You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their
wickedness."

"Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories--I speak the
truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast
here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you."

"How is mamma?" I asked.

"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply.

"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is."

"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied.

And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not
say my mother was better.

My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy,
and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.

When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the
house struck me with a deadly chi