and star-gazing and comet-finding, he never saw
such a beautiful sight.

She puts on her white dressing-gown, rolls up
her hair into great coils, shows two little ears,
like little pink shells. Then she bares her
beautiful shapely white arms, and with a
thousand mother-words and loves speaking from her
mouth, and out her eyes, she coaxes her boy to
his bath. And he is such a splendid fellow!
Erasmus is quite amazed to think he is the
father of such a fine boy, and enters into
dissertations of races and a great many ologies, besides
various theories regarding boys taking after
their mothers, and girls after their fathers; and
as I say to Robert, "What does it matter after
all?" And the boy screams with delight, and
splashes the water all about, until his mother's
hair is all sparkling with dewdrops, and she has
to souse him head over heels to bring him to
order. What feeling is it that sometimes op-
presses me when I watch them? Not envy, I
hope.

I was a mother once. For ten days I possessed
a little daughter, but I did not know it; my
ears never heard that cry, which turns the
mother's anguish into joy. When I first felt
the unutterable feeling that one day, with God's
blessing, I should be a mother, what a strange
calm holy effect it had upon me. No bad
thoughts, no evil tempers, nothing envious or
pitiful must be harboured in the frame wherein
my child lay hidden. I hardly knew how to
contain the love that grew in me, for everything
and everybody, because I desired to bespeak all
love in return for my child. I made its little
wardrobe entirely myself. "Who knows," I
said to myself, " but that there might be by a
mischance a rough seam, or a thick hem, or a
button misplaced, and tapes all wrong? My
child has to trust to its mother until it can
speak, and if my child may not trust me, there
is no use for mothers in the world." And if
you had only seen the little tiny wardrobe!
Everybody said it was perfection, and indeed
they said the truth.

And the time came for me to see my darling.
I had no recollection of what happened to me,
but that I thought I was going up-stairs.
Suddenly the stairs gave way with me, and I fell, as
it appeared to me, into the clouds. I floated
about, perplexed and weary, always falling.
That was some comfort. "For," I said, "soon
I must touch the ground, and then I shall find
Robert." And, as I thought this, I felt my
hand clasped, and lips kissed it, and hot tears
fell on it. Then I heard a voice praying this
prayer:

"O Lord God, bow down thine ears and
hear. O Lord, open thine eyes and see. Behold
thy servant prostrate before Thee. Give me my
darling's life, for my life is as nothing without
her. Thou who art so pitiful, pity me. Thou
who hearest and answereth prayer, hear and
answer me, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.
Amen."

It was the voice of Robert that said this
prayer. I tried to clasp his hand, but lacked
the power. I said, "Robert," and he started
and listened, as if he heard a far-away whisper.

Again I made an effort, and said, "Robert,
hold me fast," and he answered quickly, like
one gasping, "I will, my darling."

And he put one strong arm under me, and
another over me, and I smiled, happy, falling
asleep.

So once more I went to sleep with Robert's
arm round me. When I again awoke, he was
sitting looking at me, with happy wide-opened
eyes. I squeezed his hand, for I was stronger.
Then he bent down his head close by me, and I
heard him whispering another prayer, one of
thanksgiving.

Every hour I felt better. At last I
recollected my little baby, and I became conscious
it rested no longer near my heart. I listened,
thinking perhaps I might hear the cry I had
longed for.

"Robert," I whispered, at last, "have I—
have we a little baby?"

"Yes, love; but God said I must give him
either my wife or child, and our little babe is
safe in heaven."

(Oh! my child—my child.)

Once or twice I have thought (but believe
me no more) that if I had been as fortunate as
other mothers, and not been ill, perhaps my
baby would have lived. It pined—maybe for
its mother, and she lay all unconscious of having
a little darling. I know it is wrong to think
thus. My child lives in the courts of heaven.
The angels are her teachers, and they tell her of
her mother on earth, who would have loved her,
oh! so dearly, but that she was wanted in
heaven to be a little messenger angel.

Robert and I are not to have any other child,
but our little angel. It was so  decreed, because
of my illness. And Robert is glad—he shudders
at the mention of that time, saying he could
never bear it again. "Am I not better to thee
than ten children?" he whispers, if I look a
little sad.

(Oh! Robert, my husband, my darling, thou
art to me life itself—but, Patty, recollect your-
self, and don't rhapsodise.)

Maggie's boy has all my pretty things, and
he grows so fast, that she and I are as busy as
bees getting him short-coated, little precious
man! He is called Robert; Erasmus would
have it so; but Maggie means to call him
Robin, because she says there is only one
Robert, and I agree with her. Maggie is—
well—Maggie is just the very darling suited to
us all—but, goodness me! Robert has finished
the French letter, written in the Italian hand,
perfumed with Persian jasmine, ever so long ago.

"Now may I ask, Patty, why this truly
Frenchified epistle was given me to read?"

"As if you could not guess, Robert?"

"Upon my word, Patty, 'tis a riddle much
beyond my comprehension. A young French
lady, impulsive by nature, I should say, writes
to Pet, also impulsive. The letter, my love of
truth compels me to own, is one that no English
girl would have written to another English girl: