Alice, bursting into tears, replied—"Your blessed mother never come now."
"Oh, but by-and-by will do:" and I closed my eyes again.
Alice now ran down stairs to call my husband, and tell him what had passed. The voices I heard were those of Mrs. Oswald and Lady Martindale, who had called every day to inquire for me; and Pendarves had been this day prevailed upon to go down to them. But he bitterly repented his complaisance when he found I had heard them talking; though he rejoiced in my restored hearing, which had seemed quite gone. He hastily, therefore, dismissed his visitors, and resumed his station by my bed-side. I knew him, and spoke to him; but damped all his satisfaction by asking for my mother, and wondering where she was. He could not answer me, and was doubtful what he ought to reply when he recovered himself.
At this moment the physician entered; and hearing what had passed, declared that the sooner he could make me understand what had happened, and shed tears (for I had shed none yet), the sooner I should recover, and he advised his beginning to do it directly.
Accordingly, when I again asked for her he said—"Do you not see my black coat, Helen? and do you not remember our loss?"
"O, yes; but I thought our mourning for the dear child was over."
"You see!" said Pendarves mournfully.
The physician replied—"Till her memory is restored, though her life is spared, a cure is far distant; but persevere."
In a fortnight I was able to take air; but I still wondered where my mother was, though I soon forgot her again.
But one day Pendarves asked me if I would go and visit the grave of my child, which I had not visited for some time. I thankfully complied, and he dragged me in a garden chair to the church door.