the other; and the interests and troubles of home and of school were poured out to willing ears, and sympathy and advice exchanged.  How Fred and Mary had been companions from the very first, how their love had grown up unconsciously, in the sports in the sunny fields, shady coombs, and green woods of their home:  how it had strengthened and ripened with advancing years, and how bright and unclouded their sunshine had been to dwell on:  this was her delight, while the sadness which once spoke of crushed hopes, and lost happiness, had gone from her smile.  It was as if she still felt herself walking in the light of his love, and at the same time, as if she wished to show him to his daughter as he was, and to tell Henrietta of those words and those ways of his which were most characteristic, and which used to be laid up so fast in her heart, that she could never have borne to speak of them.  The bitterness of his death, as it regarded herself, seemed to have passed, the brightness of his memory alone remaining.  Henrietta loved to listen, but scarcely so much as her mother loved to tell; and instead of agitating her, these recollections always seemed to soothe and make her happy.

Henrietta knew that Aunt Geoffrey and grandpapa were both of them anxious about her mother’s health, but for her own part she did not think her worse than she had often been before; and whilst she continued in nearly the same state, rose every day, sat in her arm-chair, and was so cheerful, and even lively, there could not be very much amiss, even though there was no visible progress in amendment.  Serious complaint there was, as she knew of old, to cause the spasms; but it had existed so long, that after the first shock of being told of it two years ago, she had almost ceased to think about it.  She satisfied herself to her own mind that it could not, should not be progressing, and that this was only a very slow recovery from the last attack.

Time went on, and a shade began to come over Fred. He was bright and merry when anything occurred to amuse him, did not like reading less, or take less interest in his occupations; but in the intervals of quiet he grew grave and almost melancholy, and his inquiries after his mother grew minute and anxious.

“Henrietta,” said he, one day when they were alone together, “I was trying to reckon how long it is since I have seen mamma.”

“O, I think she will come and see you in a few days more,” said Henrietta.

“You have told me that so many times,” said Fred.  “I think I must try to get to her.  That passage, if it was not so very long!  If Uncle Geoffrey comes on Saturday, I am sure he can manage to take me there.”

“It will be a festival day indeed when you meet!” said Henrietta.

“Yes,” said he thoughtfully.  Then returning to the former subject, “But how long is it, Henrietta?  This is the twenty-seventh of March, is it not?”

“Yes; a whole quarter of a year you have been laid up here.”