No one had observed my entrance. Of course I was prepared for this, but I cannot tell why I should have felt it, as I certainly did. A low bamboo chair, cushioned with green _crétonne_, stood by the table. I had a fancy for this chair, and, pleased that they had left it unoccupied, advanced and took it, in the old way. It was with something almost like a shock, that I found myself unnoticed in the very centre of their group. While I sat there, Jane moved to fix the fire, and, in returning, made as if she would take the bamboo chair. “Oh, don’t!” said Alice, sobbing freshly. Jane’s own tears sprang, and she turned away. “It seems to me,” said my brother-in-law, looking about with the patient grimace of a business man compelled to waste time at a funeral, “that there has a cold draught come into this room from somewhere. Nobody has left the front door open, I hope? I’ll go and see.” He went, glad of the excuse to stir about, poor fellow, and I presume he took a comfortable smoke outside. The little boy started after his father, but was bidden back, and crawled up into the chair where I was sitting. I took the child upon my lap, and let him stay. No one removed him, he grew so quiet, and he was soon asleep in my arm. This pleased me; but I could not be contented long, so I kissed the boy and put him down. He cried bitterly, and ran to his mother for comfort. While they were occupied with him, I stole away. I thought I knew where Mother would be, and was ashamed of myself at the reluctance I certainly had to enter my own room, under these exciting circumstances. Conquering this timidity, as unwomanly and unworthy, I went up and opened the familiar door. I had begun to learn that neither sound nor sight followed my motions now, so that I was not surprised at attracting no attention from the lonely occupant of the room. I closed the door--from long habit I still made an effort to turn the latch softly--and resolutely examined what I saw. My mother was there, as I had expected. The room was cold--there was no fire,--and she had on her heavy blanket shawl. The gas was lighted, and one of my red candles, but both burned dimly. The poor woman’s magenta geranium had frozen. My mother sat in the red easy-chair, which, being a huge, old-fashioned thing, surrounded and shielded her from the draught. My clothes, and medicines, and all the little signs of sickness had been removed. The room was swept, and orderly. Above the bed, the pictures and the carved cross looked down. Below them, calm as sleep, and cold as frost, and terrible as silence, lay that which had been I.