She would not tell a story, and she could not say my mother was better.
My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy, and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.
When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the house struck me with a deadly chill.

What was it?
There was no sound--no bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma loved were all quiet--the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang over the place.

I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more of my fears to Emma.
She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for me, and left me there.
I went in and sprang to my father's arms--my own clasped together round his neck--looking eagerly in his face.
Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of yesterday--so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had shed many tears.
"My little Laura--my darling," he said, "I have something to tell you--something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night." "Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!" "Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms.

I flung myself in an agony of grief on the ground.

Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear-- "Mamma is dead." Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.
"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself.
You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"-- and here his voice quivered--"it is just possible that you might be useful to your mother." That was enough.