The ash buds grew black in March, the pine thorns fell in April, and yet she was still lying helpless on the sofa. One day papa and I were both sitting with her. She looked better, and was talking to us about the nightingales she had heard last May in the woods. "I feel better this morning," she said. "I am quite sure, Roland, that I could walk now if those tiresome doctors would let me." "It is better to be careful, my darling," said papa; "they must know best." "I am sure I could walk," said my mother, "and I feel such a restless longing to put my foot to the ground once more." There was a bright flush on her face, and suddenly, without another word, she rose from her recumbent position on the sofa and stood quite upright. My father sprang from his chair with a little anxious cry. She tried to take one step forward, and fell with her face on the ground. Ah, me! it was the old story over again, of silent gloom and anxious care. The summer was in its full beauty when she came down amongst us once more. Then the crushing blow came. Great doctors came from England and France; they lingered long before they gave their decision, but it came at length. My mother might live for years, but she would never walk again; the flying feet were stilled for the rest of her life. She was to be a hopeless, helpless cripple. She might lie on the sofa, be wheeled in a chair, perhaps even driven in a carriage, but nothing more--she would never walk again. My father's heart almost broke. I can see him now crying and sobbing like a child. He would not believe it. He turned from one to the other, crying out: "It cannot be true! I will not believe it! She is so young and so beautiful--it cannot be true!" "It is most unfortunately true," said the head physician, sorrowfully. "The poor lady will dance and walk no more." "Who is to tell her?" cried my father. "I dare not." "It will be far better that she should not know--a hundred times better. Let her live as long as she can in ignorance of her fate; she will be more cheerful and in reality far better than if she knew the truth; it would hang over her like a funeral pall; the stronger her nerve and spirit the better for her. She would regain neither, knowing this." "But in time--with care--she is so young. Perhaps there may be a chance." "I tell you plainly," said the doctor, "that most unfortunately there is none--there is not the faintest," and, he added, solemnly, "may Heaven lighten your afflictions to you!" They went away, and my father drew me to his arms. "Laura," he said, "you must help me all your life to take care of mamma." "I will, indeed," I cried. "I ask nothing better from Heaven than to give my life to her--my beautiful mother." And then he told me that she would never walk again--that her flying feet were to rest forever more--that in her presence I must always be quite bright and cheerful, and never say one word of what I knew.