I read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it.

She loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills.
She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other, interested her so greatly.
I knew afterward.
It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began.
I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had been most loving to me.

She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her.

She looked very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me.

When I bade her good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go.
What words she whispered to me--so loving that I have never forgotten them, and never shall while my memory lives.