A quiet, beautiful Christmas.  My father was in the highest of spirits, and would have the house decorated with holly and mistletoe.  He went out to a few parties, but he was always unwilling to leave my mother, though she wished him to go; then, when we were quite alone, the wind wailing, the snow falling and beating up against the windows, she would ask me to read to her the beautiful gospel story of the star in the East and the child born in the stable because there was no room for Him in the inn.  I read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it.  She loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills.

She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other, interested her so greatly.

I knew afterward.

It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began.

I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had been most loving to me.  She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her.  She looked very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me.  When I bade her good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go.  What words she whispered to me—­so loving that I have never forgotten them, and never shall while my memory lives.  Twice she called me back when I had reached the door to say good-night again—­twice I went back and kissed the pale, sweet face.  It was very pale the last time, and I was frightened.

“Mamma, darling,” I asked, “are you very ill?”

“Why, Laura?” she questioned.

“Because you look so pale, and you are always lying here.  You never move about or dance and play as you used to do.”

“But I will, Laura.  You will see, the very first game we play at hare and hounds I shall beat you.  God bless my darling child!”

That night seemed to me very strange.  There was no rest and no silence.  What could every one be doing?  I heard the opening and closing of the doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night.  I heard the galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door.  I thank Heaven even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my mother.  Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no nurse to dress me.  I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face pale, her eyes swollen with tears.

“What has been the matter?” I cried.  “Oh, Emma, what a strange night it has been!  I have heard all kinds of noises.  Has anything been wrong?”

“No, my dear,” she replied.

But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me.