he sofa and stood quite
upright. My father sprang from his chair with a little anxious cry. She
tried to take one step forward, and fell with her face on the ground.

Ah, me! it was the old story over again, of silent gloom and anxious
care. The summer was in its full beauty when she came down amongst us
once more. Then the crushing blow came. Great doctors came from England
and France; they lingered long before they gave their decision, but it
came at length.

My mother might live for years, but she would never walk again; the
flying feet were stilled for the rest of her life. She was to be a
hopeless, helpless cripple. She might lie on the sofa, be wheeled in a
chair, perhaps even driven in a carriage, but nothing more--she would
never walk again.

My father's heart almost broke. I can see him now crying and sobbing
like a child. He would not believe it. He turned from one to the other,
crying out:

"It cannot be true! I will not believe it! She is so young and so
beautiful--it cannot be true!"

"It is most unfortunately true," said the head physician, sorrowfully.
"The poor lady will dance and walk no more."

"Who is to tell her?" cried my father. "I dare not."

"It will be far better that she should not know--a hundred times better.
Let her live as long as she can in ignorance of her fate; she will be
more cheerful and in reality far better than if she knew the truth; it
would hang over her like a funeral pall; the stronger her nerve and
spirit the better for her. She would regain neither, knowing this."

"But in time--with care--she is so young. Perhaps there may be a
chance."

"I tell you plainly," said the doctor, "that most unfortunately there is
none--there is not the faintest," and, he added, solemnly, "may Heaven
lighten your afflictions to you!"

They went away, and my father drew me to his arms.

"Laura," he said, "you must help me all your life to take care of
mamma."

"I will, indeed," I cried. "I ask nothing better from Heaven than to
give my life to her--my beautiful mother."

And then he told me that she would never walk again--that her flying
feet were to rest forever more--that in her presence I must always be
quite bright and cheerful, and never say one word of what I knew.

No more difficult task could have been laid on the heart of a child. I
did it. No matter what I suffered, I always went into her room with a
smile and bright, cheerful words.

So the long years passed; my bea