her hand on mine, and the shadow would pass from me.

I could not help reflecting often and wonderingly at this great change
in her manner towards me. Her eyes dwelt lovingly on me, and her keenest
suffering, and the unfortunate blundering expressions I frequently let
fall, seemed equally powerless to wring one harsh or impatient word from
her. I was not now only one among her children, privileged to come and
sit at her feet, to have with them a share in her impartial affection;
and remembering that I was a stranger in the house, and compared but
poorly with the others, the undisguised preference she showed for me,
and the wish to have me almost constantly with her, seemed a great
mystery.

One afternoon, as I sat alone with her, she made the remark that my
reading lessons had ceased.

"Oh yes, I can read perfectly well now," I answered. "May I read to you
from this book?" Saying which, I put my hand towards a volume lying on
the couch at her side. It differed from the other books I had seen, in
its smaller size and blue binding.

"No, not in this book," she said, with a shade of annoyance in her
voice, putting out her hand to prevent my taking it.

"Have I made another mistake?" I asked, withdrawing my hand. "I am very
ignorant."

"Yes, poor boy, you are very ignorant," she returned, placing her hand
on my forehead. "You must know that this is a mother's book, and only a
mother may read in it."