His love for his mother, and anxiety to spare her all unnecessary suffering on his account, was very beautiful, and attracted me to him from the first. His weakness was so great that he was utterly unable, for a long time, even to feed himself, and of course, could not write. When I offered to do so for him, he declined, saying, that she knew, through a friend, that he was here; and that the sight of a strange hand, with the conviction that it would bring that he was too ill to write for himself, would be worse for her than to wait for a little while. One day, some time afterwards, I came to his bedside and found a paper lying there with a few unmeaning scratches, as I thought, upon it; he held them up to me. “The best I could do.” “What were you trying to do?” said I; “did you mean that for drawing?” A look of intense disappointment passed over his face. “I was afraid so,” said he; “then it would frighten her, as I thought. I meant it for my signature, and I’ve looked at it, and looked at it, and hoped it didn’t look as bad as I thought, at first; but if you ask what I’m trying to do, when you see it, the game’s up, and it’s no use.” I assured him that such a signature would be far stronger proof of the real state of the case, than any letter I could send telling the facts, and giving the reasonable ground for hope which we now felt. But he still preferred to wait; and ere very long we found, by pinning the paper to the table, to keep it firm, he could execute a tolerably legible epistle. The weeks rolled on, and, by slow degrees, he regained his strength; his bright, hopeful disposition, even temper, and uniform cheerfulness, were great aids to his recovery; and we watched his improvement with great satisfaction, and at last had the pleasure of seeing him able to be up, and even out, for a short time. He came to me, one morning, in our ladies’ room, saying, “Miss ----, would it be troubling you too much, to ask you to write to mother?” “Brought to it, at last!” said I. “Why do you ask me now, Robinson, when you have refused so often before, and can write for yourself?” “That’s just it; she won’t believe what I say; thinks I’m fooling her, and pretending to be better than I really am; and has an idea they’re going to take my arm off, and I’m keeping it from her; and I thought if you’d just write, and tell her it wasn’t coming off, she’d be sure to believe you.” “Sure to believe a stranger in preference to her own son, Robinson? Does that tell well for the son?” “Yes, ma’am, I think so; she knows you could have no object in deceiving her; while the thing I care most for in the world, is to keep her from fretting, and she knows it.”