"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