“Not one moment of it, Harold! If I ever think of it, with even a semblance of regret, it is that it did not begin ten years sooner.” “God bless you!” was all he answered. If I had not been such a child I should have echoed the words; for before many days were over my head, the whole of my joyous young life was an unuttered blessing upon her. The darkness of fear and despondency--the most unnatural feelings a young child can entertain--had all passed away. I no longer dreaded my father’s presence; on the contrary, it was my greatest treat to bear him company as he worked in the garden, or whistled over his carpentering, or accompanied my mother in strolls about the country. He never shut himself up in his room now, unless she was shut in too; and although his new-born love was for _her_, and not for me, the glory of it was reflected in his treatment of me. So I was very happy, and so was he, and so most people would have thought my mother to be. But though she never appeared before my father without a bright face, she was not always so careful in my presence, thinking me, perhaps, too young to observe the changes in her countenance; and sometimes when she and I were alone together, I marked the same look steal over her which I had observed on the occasion of our first meeting--an undercurrent of thoughtful sadness--the look of one who had suffered, who still suffered, from a pain which she kept to herself. Once I surprised her in tears--a violent storm of tears, which she was powerless for some time to control; and I eagerly inquired the reason of them. “Mamma, mamma, what is it, mamma? Have you hurt your foot? Did Prince bite you? Have you got a pain anywhere?” My childish mind could not comprehend that her tears should flow for any other than a physical reason. Did not papa and I love her dearly? and she was afraid of no one, and she never went to school. What possible cause could she have for tears? My mother composed herself as soon as she was able, and laid her burning face against my cheek. “Will my little boy love me always?” she asked--“always--always--whatever happens?” “Always, dear mamma. Papa and I would die if we hadn’t you. Oh, you don’t know what it was like before you came here!” “Then mamma will never again be so silly as to cry,” said my mother, as she busied herself over some occupation to divert her thoughts. But although this was the only time she betrayed herself so openly before me, I often detected the trace of weeping on her face, which she would try to disguise by excessive mirth. So the years went on, until one bright summer’s day a little sister was born in our house. I hailed the advent of this infant with the greatest possible delight. It was such a new wonderful experience to have a playmate so dependant on me, and yet so entirely my own. I positively worshipped my little sister, although her birth was the signal for my being sent back to school, but this time only as a weekly boarder.