I presume that, on ordinary occasions, I should have felt some
embarrassment in receiving a visit from Mrs. Leighton and Laura in my
home, which appeared so humble, compared to their own elegant residence;
but now it never cost me a thought, for, in the presence of a great
sorrow, all trifling considerations vanish away.

It was in the month of May that I returned home, and by the last of June
my mother was entirely confined to her room, and much of the time to her
bed. She suffered much from nervous restlessness, and at times her cough
was very distressing. She would allow no one, as yet, to sit with her
during the night, but I gained her consent that I might sleep on a
lounge which stood in her room.

There was no end to the kindness we received from the Leightons; no day
passed without some one of the family calling to enquire for my mother.

Soon after this time my mother appeared much better. She was able to sit
up more than formerly, and her cough was far less troublesome. I
remember one day saying to Aunt Patience, when we chanced to be alone,
that I began to think my mother would yet recover, she seemed so much
better.

"My dear Clara," she replied, "I hope your mother may recover; but you
must not build hopes which I fear will never be realised. This seeming
change for the better is only one of these deceitful turns of her
disease by which so many are deceived. I do not wish to alarm you
needlessly, but I dare not cherish any hopes of her recovery."

The idea that my mother would die had been impressed upon my mind from