"Yes, my love. You were taken ill in church, and were brought home. Do not talk now. By and by you will understand all about it. Let me give you a little food and refresh your pillow, and then perhaps you will fall asleep again." "I should like something to eat," said I. "I feel hungry, though I could not eat this morning." My mother smiled sadly, and I saw Cousin Marianne suddenly turn away to the window almost as if she was crying. I wondered vaguely what she was crying about, but it did not disturb me. I took the cup of broth my mother held to my lips, and presently fell asleep again. I lay in this state of childish weakness for many days and weeks, coming gradually to understand that I had been ill some time, though I had no notion how long the time was. The girls flitted in and out, and Eleanor often sat by me hours at a time, working away at her plain white seam. I liked to have her with me best of all. She never put on airs of bustle and authority like Katherine, who seemed to think that the only way to take care of a sick person was never to let that person do or have anything she wanted. Neither did she lean against the bed, or pat the floor with her foot, or talk of half a dozen things in a minute, like good little Paulina, who thought I needed to be enlivened and diverted. She just sat quietly, with her sewing, where I could see her without any trouble, and was always ready to wait on me and to save me the trouble of speaking by anticipating my wants. My mother said of her that she had the precious nursing talent, which is one of the best gifts ever bestowed on man or woman. I lay quietly in my bed, as I said, very little troubled as to the lapse of time or anything else, taking what was given me, perfectly content so long as I had my mother or Eleanor by me. I learned afterward that this long-continued passiveness of mine was a source of great alarm to my friends, who feared that my mind was irretrievably injured by what I had gone through. However, such was not the case. The bow had been terribly strained, but not cracked, and by and by, it recovered its elasticity. One morning I woke feeling much stronger, and very decidedly interested about what I was going to have to eat. The curtain was undrawn from the casement, and I raised myself on my elbow and looked out. Lo, the great willow was hung with catkins, and the hedgerow was budding. What did it mean? My mother was resting, half asleep, in the great chair, but roused herself and came to the bedside as I moved. "Maman, what time of year is it?" I asked. Her lips moved, and I was sure she said "Thank God!" Then she answered gently— "It is spring, my Vevette; the last of March." "March!" I repeated wonderingly. "I thought it had been December. And what, then, has become of Christmas?"