THIRD CHAPTER


Out of the mist and veil of my own memory, as distinguished from Father
Dan's, there comes first the recollection of a big room containing a big
bed, a big wardrobe, a big dressing table, a big praying-stool with an
image of Our Lady on the wall above it, and an open window to which a
sparrow used to come in the mornings and chirp.

When I came to recognise and to classify I realised that this was my
mother's room, and that the sweet somebody who used to catch me up in
her arms when I went tottering on voyages of discovery round the vast
place was my mother herself, and that she would comfort me when I fell,
and stroke my head with her thin white hand, while she sang softly and
rocked me to and fro.

As I have no recollection of ever having seen my mother in any other
part of our house, or indeed in any other place except our carriage when
we drove out in the sunshine, I conclude that from the time of my birth
she had been an invalid.

Certainly the faces which first emerge from the islands of my memory are
the cheerful and sunny ones of Doctor Conrad and Father Dan. I recall
the soft voice of the one as he used to enter our room after breakfast
saying, "How are we this morning ma'am?" And I remember the still softer
voice of the other as he said "And how is my daughter to-day?"