d was altered, too; and as I stood at my
mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless,
happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed in an excess of
tenderness.

But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance
of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday--as
if the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay
dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my
mind that, had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed
would have been gentle and refreshing.

The circumstance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now
pains my heart; and I relate it, that those children who have parents to
love them may learn to value them as they ought.

My mother had been ill a long time, and I had become so accustomed to
her pale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as
children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but
when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I
began to believe she would always be spared to me; but they told me she
would die.

One day when I had lost my place in the class, I came home discouraged
and fretful. I went to my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual,
but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my
return. Alas! when I look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I
think my heart must have been stone not to have been melted by it. She
requested me to go downstairs and bring her a glass of water. I
pettishly asked her why she did not call a domestic to do it. With a
look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget if I live to be a
hundred years old, she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor, sick mother?"

I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of
smiling, and kissing her as I had been wont to do, I set the glass down
very quickly, and left the room. After playing a short time, I went to
bed without bidding my mother good night; but when alone in my room, in
darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her
voice trembled when she said, "Will not my daughter bring a glass of
water for her poor, sick mother?" I could not sleep. I stole into her
chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they
told me I must not waken her.

I did not tell anyone what troubled me, but stole bac