Her mother?
She had still her mother, and with lagging footsteps she went upstairs to her.
But she found her in a deep sleep, and she descended again, and going to his room began to put together his few belongings, the clothes he had worn, the books he had read; that if the house were entered they might not be lost to him.

She buried her face in his garments and kissed them, fondly, tenderly, passionately, lingering over the task, and at last putting the things from her with reluctance.

A knot of ribbon which she had seen him wear in the neck of his shirt on holidays she took and hid in her bosom, and fetching a length of her own ribbon she put it in place of the other.

This she thought she could do without fear of bringing suspicion on him, for he alone would discern the exchange.
Would he notice it?
Would he weep when he found the ribbon as she wept now?
And fondle it tenderly?
At the thought her tears gushed forth.
The day wore on.

Supported by the knowledge that even a slight shock might cast her mother into one of her fits, Anne hid her fears from her, though the effort was as the lifting of a great weight.