We did not speak of Walter. His name never once came up. I thought of him, yet hardly cared to ask or hear. I could only feel that my father was gone. Everything to do with Walter seemed so small and far away—except the sorrow he and I had caused to father those last few days. I was in bed about a fortnight, not able to get up: not regularly ill, but too weak and knocked down for anything else. And all that fortnight mother never came into my room. She was up and about, I knew that. I could hear her step on the stairs, slow and dragging, but still mother's step. She was busy about the house, doing her usual work; and Mr. Baitson said it was better for her than sitting still to brood, though she often did that too. Yes, I heard her step, but not her voice. Scarce a word passed her lips from morning till night. She was affectionate to Mary in a sort of dull dreary way, but she didn't talk to her nor any one. And she never so much as asked how I was. If Mary spoke of me, mother turned away. All this wasn't told me at the time. It came later to my hearing. They couldn't keep mother from the funeral; not Mr. Baitson, nor anybody. Go she would; and when they tried to hinder, a fierce look came into her eyes. Mr. Baitson said the excitement of being stopped might be worse for her than being let to go; and he gave in. She didn't shed a tear, all through the Service, nor by the grave. Some hoped she might; but she didn't. By the time a fortnight was over, I was getting better, and Mr. Baitson used to let me sit up for an hour or two, by way of change. Then Mary got me downstairs; but it was when mother had gone out. "How soon am I to see mother again?" I said at last to Mary. "Are you fit for it yet?" said she. "I don't see why not," I said. I had a sort of hopeless feeling, as if I never should care much about anything again, one way or another. But of course things had to be got through. "I'm afraid it will give you pain. She isn't like herself yet." "Will she be—ever?" I asked. "Will she always be vexed with me?" "It is not exactly being vexed," Mary answered. "No, it's worse," I said, sighing. "She can't get over the trouble I was to—to him." And then I had one of my crying fits; and Mary comforted me. But when it was over I came back to what we had been talking about, and I said, "I do think I ought to see poor mother." "Yes," Mary answered, slow-like, as if she wasn't sure. "Yes, that is what I feel; and Mr. Baitson has given leave. If you wish it, and if I think best—but he doesn't want you to be pressed. And he can't promise it will do her good. He does not believe it will do her harm." "Is mother ill?" I asked.