“Will you, dear Rose?” said she, placing the garland upon her friend’s head. “It’s a charming May morning,” added she, with a smile; “good-bye. We sha’n’t hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the village; so you need only stop till then, Philip.” “I shall stop for all day,” said Philip: “I’ve no mind to play any more.” “Good-bye, poor Susan. It is a pity you can’t come with us,” said all the children; and little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door. “I forgot to thank you,” said she, “for the double cowslips; look how pretty they are, and smell how sweet the violets are in my bosom, and kiss me quick, for I shall be left behind.” Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly to the side of her mother’s bed. “How grateful that child is to me, for a cowslip only! How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this?” said Susan to herself, as she bent over her sleeping mother’s pale countenance. Her mother’s unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker arm-chair, and went on with the row, in the middle of which her hand stopped the preceding evening. “She taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I know,” thought Susan, “and the best of all, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like her.” Her mother, when she awakened, felt much refreshed by her tranquil sleep, and observing that it was a delightful morning, said, “that she had been dreaming she heard music; but that the drum frightened her, because she thought it was the signal for her husband to be carried away by a whole regiment of soldiers, who had pointed their bayonets at him. But that was but a dream, Susan; I awoke, and knew it was a dream, and I then fell asleep, and have slept soundly ever since.” How painful it is to awake to the remembrance of misfortune. Gradually as this poor woman collected her scattered thoughts, she recalled the circumstances of the preceding evening. She was too certain that she had heard from her husband’s own lips the words, “_I must leave you in three days_”; and she wished that she could sleep again, and think it all a dream. “But he’ll want, he’ll want a hundred things,” said she, starting up. “I must get his linen ready for him. I’m afraid it’s very late. Susan, why did you let me lie so long?” “Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don’t hurry yourself,” said Susan. And indeed her mother was ill able to bear any hurry, or to do any work this day. Susan’s affectionate, dexterous, sensible activity was never more wanted, or more effectual. She understood so readily, she obeyed so exactly; and when she was left to her own discretion, judged so prudently, that her mother had little trouble and no anxiety in directing her. She said that Susan never did too little, or too much.