told her how the snowdrops were growing and the purple and golden
crocuses made the garden seem quite gay. I told her where I had found
the first violets, some of which I had brought to her. I cannot tell
what it was like to me to feel my mother's hand on my head once more.

Then came a brief time of happiness. My mother improved a little, and
was carried from the bedroom where she had spent so many weeks to her
boudoir, and I was allowed to be with her all day.

"She would be better soon and able to go out," my father said, and then
the happy old times would come back again. My mother would walk with me
through the picture gallery at sunset, and more, she would dance with
flying feet and run races with me in the wood. Oh, how I longed for the
time when she would regain the color in her face and light in her eyes!
They said I must be patient, it would come in time. But, alas! it was
weary waiting; the days seemed as weeks to me, and yet my dear,
beautiful mother was still confined to her room and to her bed. So it
went on.

The ash buds grew black in March, the pine thorns fell in April, and yet
she was still lying helpless on the sofa.

One day papa and I were both sitting with her. She looked better, and
was talking to us about the nightingales she had heard last May in the
woods.

"I feel better this morning," she said. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I
could walk now if those tiresome doctors would let me."

"It is better to be careful, my darling," said papa; "they must know