Do you not remember better than anything else, standing at your mother's knee--the pressure of her hand, her kiss on your forehead ?" By this time our engine had arrived.

A whistle was blowing, and nearly every one was rushing from the room, the impatient old gentleman among the first.

Miss Laura was hurriedly trying to do up her shawl strap, and I was standing by, wishing that I could help her.

The old lady and the young man were the only other people in the room, and we could not help hearing what they said.
"Yes, I do," he said in a thick voice, and his face got very red.

"She is dead now--I have no mother." "Poor boy!" and the old lady laid her hand on his shoulder.