“It’s almost like being ill again,” she said one day to her mother, as she lay in her arms nestling her little curly head against the supporting shoulder. “I was so much better in the summer. Am I always going to get ill when the winter comes? I try to be good; but I do get very tired.” “My darling, I know you do,” answered the mother tenderly. “But I think my little girl will be better soon--not ill a very long while.” “I am glad,” said Winnie; but she could not quite understand why mamma’s voice sounded sad when she told her this, nor why a great bright tear rolled down from her dear eyes and fell down upon her own curls. Why should mamma cry if she were soon going to get well? But Winifred was learning not to ask questions upon some subjects. She still believed she was going away, and that it was the thought of the parting that made her mother sad; but as yet no one had mentioned the matter to her, and she had refrained herself from alluding to it in any way. She never felt quite certain whether or not it had been a dream. [Illustration: He set her upon the stile where she could see everything.--_p. 63._] Winifred had thought a great deal during these past days. She was not unhappy, and yet a sort of weight seemed to hang upon her. She could not get rid of the idea that some great change was drawing near, and the idea made her feel serious and thoughtful. She read her little Bible as she had never read it before, and especially any parts where it told about birds or angels, and about Jesus Christ noticing or blessing little children. Winifred wished so much that Jesus was living on earth now, that she could go to Him and ask Him to take her in His arms and bless her. She could love the dear Lord Jesus very much, she knew, if only she could go to Him like that. It was so different from saying prayers at her bedside. She did not speak of these thoughts and fancies even to her mother; they were hardly clear enough to her own self to be uttered in words to a grown-up person. And she never told her dream, either, about the swallows and the angel, although she thought very much about it. She fancied perhaps it would make mamma sad, though why she should have this fancy she could not tell. When she began to feel better again these fancies still haunted her, although she had expected them to go away; and even when she was so far well that she was able to drive out with her mother one sunny afternoon, and be put down at the lodge to talk to Phil till the carriage returned, she still felt grave and serious--not merry and gay as she had done on former occasions when she was first allowed out after a few days’ detention in the house after any little attacks of illness.