You knew _when_ she loved you. You could almost count the times: the time when Papa frightened you; the time when you cut your forehead; the time the lamb died; all the whooping-cough and chicken-pox times, and when Meta, the wax doll, fell off the schoolroom table and broke her head; and when Mark went away to school. Or when you were good and said every word of your lessons right; when you watched Mamma working in the garden, planting and transplanting the flowers with her clever hands; and when you were quiet and sat beside her on the footstool, learning to knit and sew. On Sunday afternoons when she played the hymns and you sang: "There's a Friend for little children Above the bright blue sky," quite horribly out of tune, and when you listened while she sang herself, "Lead, kindly light," or "Abide with me," and her voice was so sweet and gentle that it made you cry. Then you knew. Sometimes, when it was not Sunday, she played the Hungarian March, that went, with loud, noble noises: Droom--Droom--Droom-era-room Droom--Droom--Droom-era-room Droom rer-room-room droom-room-room Droom--Droom--Droom. It was wonderful. Mamma was wonderful. She swayed and bowed to the beat of the music, as if she shook it out of her body and not out of the piano. She smiled to herself when she saw that you were listening. You said "Oh--Mamma! Play it again," and she played it again. When she had finished she stooped suddenly and kissed you. And you knew. But she wouldn't say it. You couldn't make her. "Say it, Mamma. Say it like you used to." Mamma shook her head. "I want to hear you say it." "Well, I'm not going to." "I love you. I ache with loving you. I love you so much that it hurts me to say it." "Why do you do it, then?" "Because it hurts me more not to. Just once. 'I love you.' Just a weeny once." "You're going to be like your father, tease, tease, tease, all day long, till I'm worn out." "I'm not going to be like Papa. I don't tease. It's you that's teasing. How'm I to know you love me if you won't say it?" Mamma said, "Can't you see what I'm doing?" "No." She was not interested in the thin white stuff and the lace--Mamma's needle-work. "Well, then, look in the basket." The basket was full of tiny garments made of the white stuff, petticoats, drawers and nightgown, sewn with minute tucks and edged with lace. Mamma unfolded them. "New clothes," she said, "for your new dolly." "Oh--oh--oh--I love you so much that I can't bear it; you little holy Mamma!" Mamma said, "I'm not holy, and I won't be called holy. I want deeds, not words. If you love me you'll learn your lessons properly the night before, not just gabble them over hot from the pan." "I will, Mamma, I will. Won't you say it?" "No," Mamma said, "I won't."