tiny white wreaths, a little white pall covered with flowers. My father
would not let black come near him.

My father wept bitter tears.

"There sleeps my little son and heir, Laura," he said to me--"my little
boy. It is as though he had just peeped out of Heaven at this world,
and, not liking it, had gone back again."

A pretty little white monument was put up to the baby Gerald. My mother
chose the epitaph, which I had always thought so pretty. It was simply
this--"The angels gather such lilies for God."

By degrees some little sunshine stole back, the dreadful silence
lessened, the servants began to walk about without list slippers, the
birds were carried back to the beautiful aviary--my mother's favorite
nook; the doctors smiled as they came down the grand staircase. I heard
Sir Roland whistling and singing as he had done weeks ago.

At last I was admitted to see her. One fine March morning, when the wind
was blowing freshly and tossing the big, bare branches, I was taken to
her room. I should not have known her; a pale, languid lady lay there in
the place of my laughing, beautiful mother; two large blue eyes full of
tears looked at me; two thin, white arms clasped me, and then I was
lying on my mother's heart. Oh, my darling, if we could have died then.

"My little Laura, I was afraid I should never see you again," whispered
a faint voice.

Ah, me, the ecstasy of the next half-hour! I sat close by her side and