Oh, how I longed for the time when she would regain the color in her face and light in her eyes! They said I must be patient, it would come in time.

But, alas! it was weary waiting; the days seemed as weeks to me, and yet my dear, beautiful mother was still confined to her room and to her bed.

So it went on.
The ash buds grew black in March, the pine thorns fell in April, and yet she was still lying helpless on the sofa.
One day papa and I were both sitting with her.

She looked better, and was talking to us about the nightingales she had heard last May in the woods.
"I feel better this morning," she said.

"I am quite sure, Roland, that I could walk now if those tiresome doctors would let me." "It is better to be careful, my darling," said papa; "they must know best." "I am sure I could walk," said my mother, "and I feel such a restless longing to put my foot to the ground once more." There was a bright flush on her face, and suddenly, without another word, she rose from her recumbent position on the sofa and stood quite upright.