did it. No matter what I suffered, I always went into her room with a
smile and bright, cheerful words.

So the long years passed; my beautiful mother grew better and happier
and stronger--little dreaming that she was never to walk out in the
meads and grounds again. She was always talking about them and saying
where she should go and what she should do when she grew well.

Roses bloomed, lilies lived and died, the birds enjoyed their happy
summer, then flew over the sea to warmer climes; summer dew and summer
rain fell, the dead leaves were whirled in the autumn winds, and still
my mother lay helpless. If this one year seemed so long, what would a
lifetime be?

As some of her strength returned it seemed to me that mother grew more
and more charming. She laughed and enjoyed all our care of her, and when
the wonderful chair came from London, in which she could go round the
garden, and could be wheeled from one room to another, she was as
delighted as a child.

"Still," she said to my father, "it seems to me a pity almost, Roland,
to have sent to London for this. I shall surely be able to walk soon."

He turned away from her with tears in his eyes.

A month or two afterward we were both sitting with her, and she said,
quite suddenly:

"It seems a long time since I began to lie here. I am afraid it will be
many months before I get well again. I think I shall resign myself to