I had begun to long to go home to my mother. For a time I tried hard to keep it to myself, because she had told me to be good without her. But I could not help asking very often if it was not time to go home. They always said 'not yet.' I got very tired of waiting. At last Peggy told me the reason why. Peggy was a rosy, kind-hearted maid at the farm--a likely lass Dame Foster said she was, but not as discreet with her tongue as could be wished. Peggy let out one day that I could not be taken home because my mother was ill. 'It's the fever she's got, you know, same as what the poor soldier died of. But I don't think mother's very bad, Willie dear, not like he was,' said Peggy, frightened at having made me cry. 'You must bide a bit longer here, that's all. You don't want to go away, not from the ducklings and all, do you? See, there they go! Come out and feed them, dear.' Dame Foster could only tell me the same thing. 'She'll be better soon, please God!' That was what they said every day now. They were very good to me, the kind old couple, who had never had anything to do with a child before. I might have ridden the farmer's shaggy pony all day long if I had liked. He would have picked me every cherry off the tree. Dame Foster and I used to go gravely from one place to another, hand in hand--to look at the great bars of yellow butter and thick cream in the dairy--to feed the poultry, to find eggs, or to make posies of the sweet-smelling cherry pie and clove pinks out of the front garden. One evening--Farmer Foster was out, gone I did not know where--I wandered rather disconsolately into the kitchen. It had been a long day, and it was a dull evening. The summer rain was falling softly over the garden. Dame Foster sat by the window looking out, and now and then putting her apron up to her eyes. I asked her what made her cry, and she said hurriedly first that she wasn't crying, and then that she supposed she felt dull with the rain and all. I was dull too, and had nothing to do. I asked presently to go to bed, so she bade me kneel down and say my evening prayers. Once when a little schoolfellow of mine lay sick mother taught me to pray for him and to say, 'God make Charley well, or else take him to dwell with Thee and with the angels.' Since I had heard that my mother was ill I had added these words, after much thought, to her name in my prayers. I said them now. There was the sound of a stifled sob behind me. Farmer Foster had come in without my hearing him. 'Bless his dear heart!' the old man said. 'The good Lord has heard his prayer.' I jumped up from my knees. 'Has mother got quite well?' I asked eagerly. Oh no! Farmer Foster's averted face--his wife's slow-dropping tears--Peggy's uplifted hands and pitiful, shocked look, told quite another story. They frightened me with their silence and their tears. 'Mother!' I called loudly; 'mother!' 'Oh, little Willie!' Dame Foster said, holding out her arms, 'she cannot hear you.'