“Emma, you should not tell stories!” I cried, so vehemently that she was startled.  “You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their wickedness.”

“Hush, missie!” said my good nurse; “I have told no stories—­I speak the truth; there is nothing wrong.  See, I want you to have your breakfast here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you.”

“How is mamma?” I asked.

“You shall go to her afterward,” was the evasive reply.

“But how is she?” I persisted.  “You do not say how she is.”

“I am not my lady’s maid, missie,” she replied.

And then my heart sank.  She would not tell a story, and she could not say my mother was better.

My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy, and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.

When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the house struck me with a deadly chill.  What was it?  There was no sound—­no bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma loved were all quiet—­the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang over the place.  I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more of my fears to Emma.

She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for me, and left me there.

I went in and sprang to my father’s arms—­my own clasped together round his neck—­looking eagerly in his face.

Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of yesterday—­so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had shed many tears.

“My little Laura—­my darling,” he said, “I have something to tell you—­something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night.”

“Oh, not to her!” I cried, in an agony of tears; “not to her!”

“Mamma is living,” he said, and I broke from his arms.  I flung myself in an agony of grief on the ground.  Those words, “Mamma is living,” seemed to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear—­

“Mamma is dead.”

Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.

“Laura,” said my father, gravely, “you must try and control yourself.  You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible”—­and here his voice quivered—­“it is just possible that you might be useful to your mother.”

That was enough.  I stood erect to show him how brave I could be.

Then he took me in his arms.

“My dearest little Laura,” he said, “two angels have been with us during the night—­the angel of life and the angel of death.  You have had a little brother, but he only lived one hour.  Now he is dead, and mamma is very dangerously ill.  Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect rest she will not get better—­there must not be a sound in the house.”

A little brother!  At first my child’s mind was so filled with wonder I could not realize what it meant.  How often I had longed for brothers and sisters!  Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see him.