de
to side, ready to spring out at their master, or dash off again up the
side of a big tree, and look down at him from high upon some branch.

I say all this used to interest me, for I had no companions, and went to
no school, but spent my time with my poor mother, who was very ill; and
I know now how greatly she must have suffered often and often, when,
broken down in health and spirit, suffering from a great sorrow, she
used to devote all her time to teaching me.

Our apartments, as you see, overlooked old Brownsmith's market-garden,
and very often, as I sat there watching it, I used to wish that I could
be as other boys were, running about free in the fields, playing cricket
and football, and learning to swim, instead of being shut up there with
my mother.

Perhaps I was a selfish boy, perhaps I was no worse than others of my
age. I know I was very fond of my mother, for she was always so sweet,
and gentle, and tender with me, making the most tedious lessons pleasant
by the way she explained them, and helping me when I was worried over
some arithmetical question about how many men would do so much work in
such and such a number of days if so many men would do the same work in
another number of days.

These sums always puzzled me, and do now; perhaps it is because I have
an awkwardly shaped brain.

Sometimes, as we sat over the lessons, I used to see a curious pained
look spread over my mother's face, and the tears would come in her eyes,
but when I kissed her she would smile directly and call my attention to
the beauty of the rime frost on the fruit-trees in Brownsmith's garden;
or, if it was summer, to the sweet scent of the flowers; or to the
ripening fruit in autumn.

Ah, if I had known then, I say to myself, how different I might have
been; how much more patient and helpful to her! But I did not know, for
I was a very thoughtless boy.

Now it came to pass one day that an idea entered my head as I saw my
mother seated with her pale cheek resting upon her hand, looking out
over old Brownsmith's garden, which was just then at its best. It was
summer time, and wherever you looked there were flowers--not neat
flower-beds, but great clumps and patches of roses, and sweet-williams
and pinks, and carnations, that made the air thick with their sweet
odours. Her eyes were half closed, and every now and then I saw her
draw in a long breath, as if she were enjoying the sweet scent.

As I said, I had an idea, a