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 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 best.”

“I am sure I could walk,” said my mother, “and I feel such a restless longing to put my foot to the ground once more.”

There was a bright flush on her face, and suddenly, without another word, she rose from her recumbent position on the sofa and stood quite upright.  My father sprang from his chair with a little anxious cry.  She tried to take one step forward, and fell with her face on the ground.

Ah, me! it was the old story over again, of silent gloom and anxious care.  The summer was in its full beauty when she came down amongst us once more.  Then the crushing blow came.  Great doctors came from England and France; they lingered long before they gave their decision, but it came at length.

My mother might live for years, but she would never walk again; the flying feet were stilled for the rest of her life.  She was to be a hopeless, helpless cripple.  She might lie on the sofa, be wheeled in a chair, perhaps even driven in a carriage, but nothing more—­she would never walk again.