'Yes, mother, and I only want one thing to make me quite happy.' 'Tell it me, child?' she asked, a little anxiously. 'To see you well again, mother, that is all. Then I shall go on with my work, and we shall get along famously together. But you mustn't talk any longer; you must go to sleep. Shall I sing you to sleep as you used to do to me? Do you remember that dear old song? Well, but _I_ must not talk any longer. I am going to lie here; first let me put out the light.' When I returned to the fond prison of her loving arms, I said softly, 'I shall only say two or three words more. First, mother, you must promise me to get quite well. Promise, now, for my sake.' 'I will try to, dear child; I think I shall; I feel strong already.' 'Then you must tell me that you are happy, dear mother.' 'Ah, my darling, there is not a happier mother in the world. Blessed with such a son, I should be ungrateful to God if I were not.' 'And now, mother, not another word----' 'But draw the counterpane round you, darling; you will take cold else.' 'There, it is done; feel: and I'm quite warm. Good-night, mother. One kiss--two--three; and before you can count three more I shall be asleep.' I pretended to be, but I remained awake, listening to her sighs of happiness. Every now and then she passed her fingers over my face, and over my eyes, to learn if they were closed. After a time she fell asleep herself, and her composed peaceful breathing seemed in itself an assurance of returning health. CHAPTER XLIV. AT REHEARSAL. As the curtain falls upon a scene in a drama, and when it rises again so many years are supposed to have elapsed, so between the closing of the last chapter and the opening of this six months must be supposed to have passed. We are again in London. My mother, thank God, is well, and I have within me the happy assurance that I have nursed her into health; the doctor has told me so, my mother herself has repeated it a hundred times, and I believe it and am humbly grateful. We are living near to Paradise-row, but not in uncle Bryan's shop. My mother, knowing all that occurred on Jessie's birthday, showed no surprise when, on returning to London, I took her to some comfortable rooms I had engaged, and said that these were to be our home. She made only one remark--she hoped I would not have any objection to her going to the shop occasionally to see Josey West. I told her I should be glad if she went, and that I intended to go there myself very often. We are as happy as we can reasonably expect to be. That we have sorrows is certain; but we refrain from speaking of them. We are as silent concerning our hopes, if we have any. Nothing has been heard of uncle Bryan; Josey West conducts the business as though she had been born to it, and it is really prospering under her management. She is such a favourite with all the neighbours, that her customers increase every week, and the takings are nearly doubled.