Let me show you my father's portrait of her again.

Doesn't that face tell you what an angel she was?
There was some charm in her that all children felt.

I can just remember some of my playfellows who used to come to our garden.

Other good mothers were with us--but the children all crowded round _my_ mother.

They would have her in all their games; they fought for places on her lap when she told them stories; some of them cried, and some of them screamed, when it was time to take them away from her.